


saints can't help you now

by quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse (Mentioned Obliquely), Gen, Glitchy Text Overuse, Hallucinations?, Horror, Identity confusion, Implied Recursive Events, It is somehow pre-epilogue, Mild Gore, No one actually dies in this so that's a step up for me, POV Second Person, Phantom memories, Please excuse my terrible Jake, Possession, Post Game AU, Psychological Horror, Regrets, Sleep Paralysis, You could theoretically find present DirkJake but it would require quite a lot of squinting, epilogue compliant, past Dirkjake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-03 23:17:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16335119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique
Summary: You wake, gasping for breath and with a scream choking itself in the back of your throat. It comes out as a pathetic whimper. The kind of sound reserved for dying animals, or so you’ve been told. So you’ve seen, though never in person.Not your person, strictly speaking.(Or, Dirk isn't sure whether or not his splinters are possessing him, but he doesn't know what to do about it anyway.)





	saints can't help you now

**Author's Note:**

> Ya girl back at it again with that Halloween fic. Probably not as fucky as the two I did last year, since nobody dies! Aren't you proud?
> 
> I think the glitches show up differently on mobile than they do on computer, so I'd recommend the former (for legibility reasons). And also I got weirdly experimental on structure stuff and how text looks in space, so like. I'm blaming BONES OF BLACK MARROW for that one, and also probably going to try and do that more often. 
> 
> Anyway. Happy (belated) Halloween, and hope y'all enjoy it.

_Seven devils all around you_  
Seven devils in your house  
See I was dead when I woke up this morning  
And I'll be dead before the day is done

-Seven Devils, Florence & the Machine

**12:01 AM.**

You wake, gasping for breath and with a scream choking itself in the back of your throat. It comes out as a pathetic whimper. The kind of sound reserved for dying animals, or so you’ve been told. So you’ve seen, though never in person.

Not _your_ person, strictly speaking.

But you’ve seen videos, inscribed on dusty old DVDs that still worked, that you used to play until the white noise stopped being noise and you learned to associate sounds with words and words with understanding. The shrieks used to frighten you, but now all you feel is a distant sort of understanding. It tugs at memories that are yours but not quite; the cry of birds turning to a long, drawn out screech.

_A cat dying_ , your brain helpfully provides. _Or in heat. They sound the same_.

You’re not sure why you know that. You want to believe that it’s something Roxy had told you, or something you’d seen while catsitting for her, or hell, even something from one of those documentaries.

~~ (What documentaries? None of that David Attenborough garbage, surely. You’ve got better taste than that. Steve Irwin.) ~~

((Who?))

You desperately want to squeeze your eyes shut again, but you can’t bring yourself to do even that.

It must have been from Roxy.

~~ (You remember hot asphalt and the stink of smog in the city heat, the beeping of cars in a world that you never lived in. You remember the screech coming from a back alley, filthy with garbage that you had to skulk around because you were hunger, stomach hollow eyes hollow heart hollow-) ~~

What were you thinking about again?

Your stomach rumbles, a low, gurgling sound that fills the room. You can’t move. You don’t feel hungry so much as you do _empty_.

((Your skin should be transparent, should be nothing at all. But you are not nothing. You never have been.))

You desperately yearn for something like fresh fruit. Oranges, maybe. Your mouth waters as you think of it, teeth digging into the flesh, juice bursting sharp and tart on your tongue. Vibrant.

~~ (Fresh fruit. Gross.) ~~

((You yearn so much for it.))

You don’t look at the corner of your bedroom. It’s dark everywhere else, but the corner to your left is the one place that the thin strip of moonlight slanting through your blinds can reach. It traces a straight path along the floor, a wan silver that makes your sensitive eyes burn. You prefer to watch the sun rise in stages through the change of color- dark to faint grey to a warm, soft yellow.

You find your eyes drawn to the corner anyway, drawn to the spectre that you’ve seen there for two weeks now. You’d find it poetic, how your mistakes haunt you.

It flinches, its lips turning down into a slight frown. You don’t actually know how it can be here; your connection with this one is tenuous at best. It exists outside you.

“Sup?” You finally greet it. Your voice sounds unnatural to your ears. Part of you thinks that it ought to be deeper. Part of you thinks that it isn’t yours, reedy and organic.

The ghost of you tilts its head. You can practically feel its eyes narrow behind those shades, and its frown deepens. You know you’re not normally this expressive- in fact, you damn well hope you aren’t as desperately transparent as this guy is.

It takes a step closer. It isn’t wearing your godtier robes this time around, but it does have the outfit you used to wear in the game. Shitty sneaks, gas mask and all. Your breath leaves you in a sharp huff.

You haven’t heard it speak more than two words to you, but you have it on authority from Jake that he’s more than capable of speech. You wonder if that’s why he’s here, because Jake’s thinking about you. Hating you, is more likely.

~~ (Jesus fucking Christ not this emo bullshit again.) ~~

((I second that one. English is such a pile of steaming bullshit it’s a wonder he doesn’t have a cloud of flies following him around constantly.))

The ghost rolls its eyes behind its shades. Its silence is unsettling; for all that you know it’s one of your splinters, it- isn’t. It won’t be like the phantom pieces that haunt your dreams and hurl themselves at your soul like they can stick there forever. This is more of a slap in the face than anything else. A clear as fucking day sign that you don’t have control of your powers, that you fucked up the only thing you’d thought could make you happy, that you will _never_ manage to live up to the expectations that you spend fucking years building up.

“Calm the fuck down,” the ghost says in your voice, as it sits just on the edge of the bed. Your train of thought derails.

The sheets do not crease where it sits, but you’re too aware of the dip in the bed it creates, the way weight shifts on the mattress. Like you’re being pulled towards it. You try and dig your fingers into the sheets, find some way to anchor yourself, but your body doesn’t move. It can’t.

You distantly register the heaving of your chest as the ghost shifts closer. It feels tight, too tight. You try and tell yourself that you can’t actually die from this, where’s that Strider chill, you’ve died before and been scared shitless and this isn’t half as horrifying as Jack with gold teeth and flashing eyes and watching Dave lift that sword and feeling the whistle of air before feeling nothing at all-

“Not calm, bro,” the ghost replies. Its tone is light, flippant. You don’t think you’ve managed to sound that casual once in your life.

~~ (Fuck off, man, I’ve managed it.) ~~

~~ (You remember staring at a wall, ignoring the sort of strange contented feeling from feeling nervous eyes on you. From knowing the watcher was squirming. You hold the power here. You’re in control of his reaction, and it’s intoxicating. He could be happy or devastated, and you’re the one in charge of that. You voice your approval with a tone so bored that it doesn’t sound approving at all. A part of you that’s slowly dying howls in anger, but a comforting sense of pride hazes through your head. Cal’s a comforting weight on your lap.) ~~

((That’s so fucking true. For all that you claim to be paragon of chill, you’re jack shit. You’re literally the least chill motherfucker on the planet and you hate it.))

The ghost looms over you. You can’t see through its shades in the dark, but you’re stupidly thankful for it. You don’t want to know what’s in its eyes when it looks at you.

Hunger, maybe. Hatred. Anger. A whole host of nasty things, but the worst? The worst is what you can hear in its voice sometimes. A mix of contempt and pity, like you’re so fucking beneath it. You already know that you should have this under control, under wraps, but here it is and you still can’t fucking make yourself _move-_

Your ears do something funny where you can’t hear anything but blood pounding in them. A constant thudding as your heart beatbeatbeats, too fast to be normal. You think, faintly, that your breathing must be strained. You feel more than hear what the ghost says.

You watch its lips form the words. They’re chapped, thin. A little dry. You wonder why Jake is remembering you now, like this. If he even has any idea that he’s doing this. You won’t mention it, you don’t talk to him. You don’t know how.

_You’re pathetic._

It sinks into you slow and deep, settles into the very marrow of your bones. You close your eyes, like that’ll help drown anything out. It would, if you didn’t know every word the ghost says by heart. You know what comes next.

_Can’t even stop me._

((Couldn’t stop me, either. Can’t control any of us.))

~~ (You’d never be able to stop me, even if you tried.) ~~

It rushes over you like a wave, dragging you under and keeping you there. It feels for a single moment like water is rushing in through your nose and mouth. Clarity comes in the form of teeth grazing down your jaw.

There’s a weight on your chest, and the barest brush of fingers around your throat. Mockingly gentle, tender as they trace along the scar bisecting your neck.

They squeeze down, your eyes roll back in your head.

Your lungs _burn_ , and you can’t scream, and the weight is growing heavier and heavier and-

**1:02 AM.**

There is something under your skin.

You feel it crawling, shifting, trying to settle in like your body is an old favorite sweater that it swears it can fit into, even if it’s gained fifty pounds over the last five years and a beer gut that ain’t looking so good.

Experimentally, you twitch your fingers, like you’re testing to see if you can move. Of course you can. Why wouldn’t you be able to?

You can feel your lungs expand a deep, deep breath, feel yourself tasting the air even though it hasn’t changed at all. There is no salt here, no brine and no scent of the sea, no quiet susurrations of waves. It’s too quiet, your head too crowded. Instead, it’s metal and a hint of citrus, a bit of sweat and the rancid brand of Lynx Dave had gotten you for your birthday that is actually somehow worse than Axe. It’s sharp metal, and rust that makes you wrinkle your nose. An acrid tang that’s familiar to all of your shards.

You sit up, and in the gloom, you can see a dark spot on your pillow. Wet to the touch. Automatically, you bring your hand up to rest just above your mouth. The nosebleeds had started a scant month after you’d set yourselves up on Earth C. You used to have them sometimes, when you were younger.

You don’t even bother changing the pillowcase at this point. The fabric is dark, and by the light of day, it will have faded until you don’t even know it’s there.

You always forget, in the morning.

Your eyes pass over a couple of similar spots, dismiss it as part of the fabric’s pattern. You know, deep down, that there are similar stains on the side against the mattress, but you find yourself strangely distant from the thought. It doesn’t seem to matter.

The laundry hamper is stuffed full in the corner, and you know that you should do something about that.

Dawn is a long way off, though, and you find that you’re still straining your ears to hear- something. Anything.

Images drift past the forefront of your mind- a city with squat buildings around you and dagger sharp ones in the distance, the constant roar of cars and hum of voices blending together in the background. This is unfamiliar. But the consistent awareness of sharing space with someone else, the way their shuffling around blends into ambient noise, the way you can sometimes hear breathing if they’re in the same room as you? This, you remember. It makes you ache inside with loneliness, ~~contempt~~.

You turn to scan the entirety of your room. The blinds are drawn firmly shut, now; it’s only because your eyes are adjusted that you can make out anything at all. It’s silent but for your breathing.

Something twinges in your head.

You smooth your palm over the sheets, where they’re rumpled just at the edge of the bed, and you try and remember if they were like that before. You can’t; they wouldn’t have remained the same after you’d been sleeping.

Have you been sleeping? You aren’t entirely sure, but your head feels heavy and your eyes burn the way they do when you’ve woken up too early. You think that you have. You must be. You wouldn’t be in bed, in the dark, otherwise.

There’s no one in the room with you- your only companions are the silent, dark screen of the laptop on your workbench, the barely-there silhouette of a half-finished chassis on it. The clock with its numbers blaring red. You don’t think that there should be anyway, but the thought doesn’t settle the unease twisting in your stomach. You don’t try to stand up; your legs are too shaky, even if you feel more settled in your skin.

Instead, you take deep, controlled breaths. The same kind that you tell Dave to take sometimes, when he spots you out of the corner of his eye. It calms him down, usually.

~~ (That fuckin’ kid, man. Needs to grow a goddamn spine. Shocked that he didn’t after everything I did, all the work I put into him. Dude beat the game and all, too. You’d think he wouldn’t flip out over something as dumb as that. Then again, he’s always been jumpy. Kept him alive, hasn’t it.) ~~

It works for you, too. Now that you’re upright, have a firmer grip on yourself. The clock’s numbers flicker for a moment into something unreadable. You remind yourself that the darkness here is safe, that the quiet is safe. The latter isn’t so difficult to do- you are primed to action by loud noises, a bang against the roof heralding death by alien fish bitch robosoldier. The quiet has always meant safety; this is just a new brand of it. Just something else to get used to.

You can deal with the lack of hearing gulls and waves lapping at the pylons, surrounding you. Or the whistle of the wind, the dampness in the air. All that, you had to do without in the Game, strung along a series of dead planets. But the quiet, being left alone with nothing but your thoughts-

~~ (Never really had that much of an issue with those, to be honest. I was a focused guy, not some kind of lame dumbass.) ~~

((I literally had everything taken from me _but_ my thoughts. Glad you’re enjoying that particular brand of hell.))

-is not a good place to be. It reminds you too much of pacing nervously in your four walls back on LOTAK, torn between overanalysis and indecision and paralyzed by the knowledge that no matter what you did, it would be the wrong choice.

You have to shake yourself out of that, now. You’re trying to be better. You are.

~~ (Like you could be improved. Well, you might need some work; you’ve gone all kinds of stupid and soft.) ~~

((Yet another venture destined for failure.)) ~~~~

You can’t actually see where you left your phone, so you fumble for the clock instead. It has a charmingly antiquated radio function that you know how to turn on, and vaguely how to turn off. The late-night programming will be utter garbage, but you’re not going to complain about it. It’s a marvel for you that it’s there at all. Your fingers seek out the buttons, count them off by muscle memory before pressing the right one.

You don’t recognize the words or the beat, but you can tell that it’s in some form of Alternian. For all that you hated and feared the trolls in equal measure back when you where in the middle of nowhere and the Batterwitch destroyed your planet to revive a dead race, you’d never met one. You think that perhaps you’ve adapted better to dealing with them than anyone would have expected.

The music, though. That’s fuckin’ weird.

But you let the strange gutturals and clicks wrap around you, interspersed with some truly magnificent guitar screeching. It isn’t deeply distracting; you know that you can tune it out if you wanted to. But it’s foreign enough, loud enough, obnoxious enough that you can focus on it and let it crowd out all the thoughts from your head.

**2:23 AM.**

You finally cave and stand up. You feel tired, your eyes burning in a way that’s all too familiar.

You decide that you ought to take a shower, even if your limbs feel slow and sluggish, like you’re a marionette pulling your own strings. The crawling under your skin has subsided, though, and you’re thankful enough that you try not to think too hard about _why._ Your mouth is dry, and you find yourself craving water, cold enough to shock and burn. Going to the kitchen is out of the question, so you make your way to the bathroom instead.

Your residence isn’t that big; it’s a spacious cottage with only one floor (no stairs to be warned about, dawg), but a cottage nonetheless. Your feet take you along smooth wooden floors in the dark- you should put the lights on, but you don’t think you want to. Not yet.

The door eases open without so much as a creak under your touch, and you blindly smack at the wall until your fingers find the smooth plastic of the light switch. You close your eyes before you flick it on- the bulbs are fluorescent, blindingly bright even through your eyelids. It always takes a moment for you to adjust to it, but when you take late-night/early morning showers like this, you always wish you had your shades.

You should probably change the bulbs. But your bathroom is what you like to think of as a work of art- all sleek, modern lines in black, white, and silver. A tub and shower combo, spacious, with all the hot water you could want and twelve different settings for water-pressure. You may have gone a little overboard designing the whole thing; you remember Dave being mildly baffled at how much you’d put into it. But after those months of set-up and the jump forward, you’re more than happy to have these amenities. You’d have added a Roman bath, but the Consorts are fairly fond of communal bathing. You and Jake join them, occasionally, but you still prefer this place.

The only other room in your house that had gotten quite this level of care is your workshop, but even that wasn’t so designed. You’d just made sure you had enough space for it.

You shake off the strange feeling that you’re maudlin just to remind yourself that you belong here. You know full well that you do.

“You won the Game,” you tell yourself, your voice quiet as it echoes faintly off the tiles. “You won the Game and you deserve it. This is your happily ever after.”

~~ (Get a fuckin load of this guy, still believing in happily ever afters. You don’t deserve shit and you know it.) ~~

((Deserve? Don’t make me laugh. You deserve this the least of anyone. You have a whole lot to make up for, and kissing everyone’s ass isn’t going to cover half of it. We don’t get what we deserve, Dirk. You should know that by now. But you will, and I will. I’ll make sure of it.))

It’s ridiculous, as far as mantras go. You don’t even know if it does much; some nights you still wake up, waiting for a crash on the roof, waiting for the roar of waves or something to rip all this away from you, because surely it’s still a dream. But saying shit out loud is part of convincing yourself, so you figure it can’t do any harm.

You avoid looking in the mirror as you shuck off your clothes into a neat pile and step into the shower. You turn the water on, adjust the temperature so it’s nearly scalding, and let out a deep sigh of relief as it streams down onto your shoulders.

This is much, much better. Steam begins to curl upwards, and you close your eyes again. You can feel the tension seeping out of your shoulders, swept away with the rivulets of water. You can feel the droplets splash up against your face, hot against your skin. It’s a familiar sensation, but part of you revels in the novelty. You ignore that easily, instead focusing on how you feel settled. Almost peaceful, without anything knocking about in your head, or phantoms waiting around the corner.

You take care to keep your mind from wandering as you stand under the spray, your grip on time growing tenuous. Out of reflex, you reach out for your dreamself, even wait a second to awaken on a plush bed in a purple room, on a moon that sways gently on a chain. You don’t, of course. There’s nothing there, just the jagged absence of a splinter-self lost. But it isn’t a pain that you can’t cope with; other than the ghost, all your splinters are gone. Ground to dust by the Game and your own choices.

Somewhere, deep inside, you think that you regret the way things had turned out. But for all your thinking and planning, there was never an outcome where all of you could come out unscathed. There was never an outcome with them (Hal) surviving, and you doing the same. Or maybe you’re just telling yourself that to feel better about the whole thing.

((Wow. Who the fuck says I’m dead?))

Time stretches and slips away from you, loops around curiously like it always seems to do when you’re in the shower. You’re content to let it, though; there’s nothing waiting for you outside, and you’re more than reluctant to leave the hot spray.

You do notice when your fingers start to prune, but it’s not enough of a discouragement to actually get you out of the water. You’re not sure there’s anything capable of breaking your habit of infinite showers, and even if there was, it’d be a point of pride to keep doing it anyway. Unless there was a severe drought, in which case, you’d probably get lynched for being the cause of it _and_ for making it worse, like some shitty Broman emperor. The thought makes you laugh a little to yourself, the sound quiet.

“What’s so funny?”

Your eyes fly open when you register that it’s your voice, but you haven’t spoken; the timbre of it is different without it resounding in your own skull. You aren’t prepared to see the ghost standing a scant few inches away from your face, rivulets of water streaming down it. It’s wearing the same clothes from earlier- from your dream, earlier. It was a dream. It has to be, some weird kind of sleep paralysis.

They’re plastered to its body. It looks so, so real.

You nearly reach out to touch it. Him.

“Nothing,” you manage to get out. You squeeze your eyes shut, open them again. It’s still there.

“Damn, dude, you could at least share the joke. It’s not like I wouldn’t get it.” The same light tone. It’s wearing shades, but you’re close enough to see through them, to the sliver of amber iris beneath. Droplets of water cling to the smooth, dark glass, but it doesn’t seem to fog.

“Jesus,” it sighs, and you see your eyes roll behind those shades. It reaches out, rests a hand against your bare chest. Its palm is cold against your skin, and the contact sets you thrumming uncomfortably, something discordant rising between you. You swear that you see its edges flicker, briefly.

You tense, fingers curling into fists at your sides. You refuse to lift a hand to touch him in return, but you’re more than ready to shove him away, launch yourself out of the tub if needed.

“How-?” you start, shake your head. It presses its hand firmer against your skin. “This isn’t possible.”

“What’s the matter, Dirk?” it asks, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Your lips. “Did you think I wasn’t real?”

“Most people would say that ghosts aren’t real,” you reply, quiet. There’s silence for a moment, the only sound that of water beating against your skin, the base of the tub. “And we haven’t seen any, after the Game.”

“The Game is over, and I’m still here. You can’t deny that,” he says. “I heard you in the mirror, earlier. One hell of a mantra.”

“ _How_ are you still here?”

The question hangs in the air between you. A complicated expression crosses his face- something you recognize as confusion. Uncertainty, mixed with reluctance, mixed with longing.

“The short of it is that I don’t know. I could talk both our ears off about metaphysics and dreambubbles and conjecture,” the ghost continues. His hand is now warm to the temperature of your skin, and it slides smoothly up to your collarbone. He has the same callouses you do, they scrape along your skin and come to a rest in the hollow of your throat.

You remember that hand around your neck, distinctly.

But it doesn’t exert any pressure, this time, just keeps talking. “But I’m the only one of your splinters that isn’t entirely you, if you catch my drift. I figure that has something to do with it.”

“You mean-?”

“Yeah,” he nods, lips set in a firm line. Not a displeased one, you think. His hand slides up your neck, thumb pressing against your carotid. It digs in with just enough force, and the ghost sighs with something nearly like pleasure as it feels your pulse. Your heart is beating faster than normal, you’re sure it registers.

You lift your own hand, and mirror the action on him. His skin has warmed significantly with the water, small rivulets dripping down his cheeks like tears. You fight the urge to brush them away, instead pressing your fingers into the soft skin of his throat. He doesn’t have a pulse, but you feel his breath hitch.

“You fucked Jake English up so bad, he’s even carrying shards of you into this world,” the ghost tells you, with all the softness of a knife slipping between your ribs.

“ _We_ fucked him up bad,” you correct him, and you’re met with lips peeling back to reveal teeth.

“You could say that,” the ghost concedes, but its fingers tighten around your throat. You wonder if you’ll bruise, or if they’ll fade before tomorrow morning.

“You’re only here because he’s asleep.” The realization startles you, and you look over at him as he nods the confirmation.

“Got it in one,” he answers, and you hate that there’s something faintly amused in his voice. “But I wouldn’t be busting my ass to be here for nothing.”

“Then what _are_ you here for, other than casual bromicide?” Your voice sharpens, turns to something accusing.

“A warning, maybe.” He sounds tired now, drained in a way that you can feel, bone-deep. “I thought I should try to do that. It’d be the right thing, and. We’re trying to be better now, aren’t we?”

“We are,” you reply, cautious. Your answer echoes curiously in your head, and you feel something curl in the back of your mind, mocking and sardonic.

“Then, you need to be-,” he cuts off, and the hand around your throat tightens significantly, enough to make breathing difficult, enough to make you dig your nails into his skin, get him to stop. His expression does something complicated again, except this time you don’t recognize it, the ugly surge of emotion crossing his face before it smooths out into something careful and blank. The change feels wrong, corrupted somehow, but you don’t have the time to dwell on it.

He pushes you up against the tiled wall, out of the hot water. You flinch, as your back connects with the cold surface, gooseflesh breaking out along your arms. You feel much more vulnerable like this, as he bears down on you. Forehead to forehead, his eyes fading from orange to black.

You only start to fight when you see the shift, watch iris and sclera get swallowed up by empty, unfeeling black. He hisses, the darkness seeping down his cheeks in an oily slick, and you shove ineffectually at his chest. You shove any budding panic down, use the fear as fuel instead as you feel adrenaline practically sparking through your veins. You bring your knee up, straight into its stomach, and it wheezes- the sound high and inhuman.

Its grip lightens for a fraction of a second, just enough for you to shove it off properly, and-

Your hand goes through its chest, the shock of it enough to make you shout, because it was _solid_ just a moment ago, but now it looks like its dripping something tarry and toxic, a hand reaching out to you like a plea as you scramble over the edge of the tub, nearly tripping. Your knee bangs painfully into the tile, pain radiating in a starbust that doesn’t stop you. You’ve had worse.

You don’t even look at the ghost, but you know that its lips are forming the shape of incoherent words as they melt down into black ichor. You can’t hear anything over the sound of the shower, the sound of blood rushing in your ears as you wrench the bathroom door open.

You nearly slip on the floors as you run, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the wood. You slam your bedroom door behind you with shaking hands, and make sure you click the lock. It’s impossible to tell if that’ll keep it out, but he was so frighteningly corporeal before that you think it might work.

You miss when he couldn’t talk.

You fix your eyes on the door, waiting for him to appear.

He doesn’t.

**7:42 AM.**

Morning has come in full, the light of day sweeping in through your drawn curtains, the sun carelessly bright. There is very little in the way of shadows in your room now, and you have calmed down considerably since you stumbled into bed, damp and shaking.

It all seems like a distant memory, a dream with too much lucidity, and the fear that had gripped you tight has long since released its grip. You aren’t worried about that, now. You don’t know why you feel so certain, but you know that the ghost will not show up again in the light of day. Its presence is one only reserved for the darkest parts of the night, like the denizen of any shitty horror movie. Just like it should be.

You’re still thinking about the ghost, though. About its warning, about whether or not you should try and warn Jake. If it is what you think it is (and you’re probably not wrong, in this case), he deserves to know. But- you don’t think that anything like that could have a part of him in it. He doesn’t hate you, you tell yourself. And he doesn’t want you dead. And if the ghost wants that, it’s probably not the one he used to believe in.

You want answers, but. Now isn’t the time. Not yet, not until you’ve decided on the right questions to ask. Even that is harder than it should be, though. You can’t help but feel that there’s something you’re missing, something you can reach out and almost touch, just in front of you.

But even that feeling slides away, leaving you with nothing.

You decide to spend today inside. You- don’t think that you’ve got any plans, and you know you’re not in any state of mind to work on a project involving heavy machinery. It’ll be a lazy day, the kind that you had to teach yourself how to have after the Game. They still aren’t your favorites, but you understand the necessity of a break now. Much better than you have before.

So you get your laptop, pull up the first episode of Watamote, and deliberately focus your mind on absolutely nothing for the second time today.

**12:04 PM.**

There’s something about the screen that’s lulling you to sleep, even if a part of you is screaming to fight it. The noise is tinny and distant, faded. You can’t understand the urgency behind the words.

~~ (It’s fine.) ~~

((You fucking idiot, no it’s not.))

~~(It’s fine.)~~

It’s fine, you tell yourself. You haven’t had a night exactly conducive to sleeping well, and you’re so far removed from the actual events of it that it doesn’t bother you, anymore. Panic has seeped away, leaving you smooth with tiredness.

That, and you’ve seen this episode of MLP before; you switched after two hours because you couldn’t pay attention, and this hasn’t helped your case any. You’ve seen all of them, to be fair, but this isn’t one of your favorites. You still don’t change it, of course; it would be damn near sacrilege to.  

You stifle a yawn. You were worried about something earlier, but you can’t quite place it anymore. It probably doesn’t matter that much- you know that you’ll remember later, when you can focus. You do have a good mind for things that bother you, to worry and pick them over hour after hour and get nowhere with it.

You don’t even realize it as you start to f         a                         d                                  e

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       a way.

~~( **???**~~

~~You stare at your hands for too long. There’s something deeply wrong with them. They aren’t what you remember them being; the fingers are too delicate, with callouses that you don’t have. You curl them, experimentally. You can feel the weight of a katana in your hand. Yes, that sounds right. Feels right.~~

~~You may not know just who you are, but you know that feels right. You cast your eyes around, spin in a chair that’s too comfortable until you catch sight of what you’re looking for. You didn’t know it until that moment, and it’s without a single thought that your body moves.~~

~~Your hand wraps around the hilt of this katana as if it has always belonged there, and you hum with the satisfaction. The sound doesn’t rumble in your chest as it should, but you know instinctively that you weigh less. You’re lighter, somehow. Younger. There’s still a voice screaming in the back of your head as you head for the door, your steps purposeful.~~

~~You ignore it, of course. It’s different from the usual staticky fuzz at the back of your head, that’d diminish when you agreed with it. Different from the low, rolling voice that you’d hear sometimes, coming from a lime-green haze and deep set in a familiar pair of baby blues. You wish you could see them around. You think that it would help. But it doesn’t really matter.~~

~~There’s someone you need to find.~~

~~Daylight hits you, bright and warm for just an instant as the voice in your head _screams_ like it knows something you don’t-)~~

**2:24 PM.**

You pry your eyes open, stare at the clock. You have lost two hours today. You try not to give in and panic; instead, you check your phone.

Nothing.

There are no errant messages, there’s no obnoxious red text in perfect grammar with too much knowledge. There’s not a hint of the same shade of red, but infinitely more welcome. You look to your left.

Your katana is in the room with you.

This doesn’t register as unusual, until you realize that you’re in the living room. It shouldn’t be here, _you_ shouldn’t be here. You don’t remember leaving your bedroom after showering, after trying desperately to drown yourself in work, after frankly a fucking disaster of a conversation.

Something heavy and sick settles in your gut as you straighten up. Your fingers have curled themselves into fists, white-knuckled, nails digging crescent moons into your palm. You wince a little; they’re stiff when you force yourself to relax.

There’s mud on your shoes. Grass stains on your knees. You notice these with an almost clinical distance. You make yourself stand up, bracing as you pull your katana out of its sheathe. You half-expect to see it splattered with blood. You swear that you see some flickering in and out of existence along the smooth, unbreakable steel, but when you tilt it, you can only see a distorted sliver of your reflection.

Your jaw looks sharper, older. You tell yourself it’s just the curve of the steel, and when you lift a hand up to feel it, the shape is familiar. You need to shave.

You resheathe the blade in a hurry, and this time take it up to your room. Deep-seated instinct doesn’t allow you to lock it away

((And isn’t that a fucking stroke of irony, right there?))

and so you shove it under your bed instead. Easy access, if you need it. You know that you won’t.

You try not to notice how your hands shake; you have to press them tight against your thighs to get them to stop. Two hours. What could happen in two hours? You don’t think you’ve been flying. Not with the state of your shoes.

There’s not much around, other than Consorts in the village. Flash-stepping would increase the distance you can cover by

((4476.88%))

a metric fuckton, but you’d feel it in your legs after.

You feel sick in your stomach as you think about what might have happened, if you were closer. If someone had been nearby. At worst, you’ve spooked a few Consorts. You hope. You can’t stop thinking about the possibility of having hurt someone. Your hands are clean, the blade is clean, your shirt is clean, but. You could’ve changed before you woke up, washed your hands. Cleaned your katana and left the evidence at the spot or in the garbage.

The next ten minutes finds you digging through the trash in your kitchen, desperate to findd the slightest hint of it. You know yourself, you know you’re smarter than this.

Twenty minutes later, and you feel sick as you look at tissues in your bathroom and try and remember if they’re from the nosebleeds or something else. Rusty smears and spots stare at you as you sit on the cold tile, trying desperately to remember.

_~~Sun beating down on the back of your neck, the sounds of the city rising up around you. A sword in your hand, a child (oh god a fucking~~ _ ~~child _) in front of you, with shades knocked askew and eyes wide open and you can hear him telling you to stop that he’ll be better and you want so fucking badly to say that it’s fine, you want to make yourself fling the sword away and tell him it’ll be okay that you’re going to stop that he’s done well he needs to hear it_~~

_~~You don’t do any of that, and you have to watchfeel your alternate self sneer. You hate that his mouth forms harsh words, spits at the boy, ‘Don’t fuckin’ cry, you gotta toughen up’-~~ _

You have to shake yourself out of it, that phantom memory. It’s worse than the dreams, so much more vivid, more realistic. It’s like you _are_ him, a passenger in his body being forced to look at it. You shudder, screw your eyes shut tightly. You’re thankful that you can’t see the images seared into your eyelids.

((That was fucked _up_. I know I think that you and I are bad, and that you deserve to fucking suffer for everything you did to me, but that dude takes the goddamn cake.))

You tell yourself that it’s not from today, it can’t be. Dave isn’t a child, he’s grown up, he could easily kick your ass with Time bullshit if you came near him. He _would_. You don’t like to think about what else that would mean, though; you’ve been trying your goddamn best to be a bro for him, to be fucking there, like he’ll never admit that he needs.

You could ask him if he’s seen you today, but. That’s weird. He’s not an idiot, and you haven’t told him anything about your- dreams. Episodes. Whatever they are. You can’t let yourself damage whatever fragile kind of a relationship you have, not like that. He’ll never trust you, he’ll never let you near him again

((Rightfully so.))

and that’s something you can’t bear to think about.

There hasn’t been any actual evidence that you went to him, though, but it’s not much solace.

**_???_ **

_You are-_

_You_ are _, for the first time in what feels like too long. There is nothing around you, nothing but darkness. Nothing but nothing. You would normally be disgusted by that statement, vague and undescriptive, but it works. This is the void. You can feel it eroding you, tearing away at who you used to be. Who you are now is so, so different from that person._

_The memories are hazy, even now. You think you recall your head in a confined space, knowledge that you were going to do. No, was it being run through by the Miles? No, a Drone, when you were twelve. No, it was-_

_The memories crowd into your head all at once. Millions of millions of phantom deaths in this place between worlds, and each of them chip more of you away. You’ll join these ghosts, too. You don’t know why you think you’re not a ghost yourself. You ought to be. You were-_

_No._

_You weren’t alive._

_The realization halts everything, freezes the waves of pain into relief so sweet you could almost cry. But you can’t. You wouldn’t, even if you were able. You don’t even have a form, here; you exist as nothing but a stray thought,_ bad code _, too stubborn to be erased._

_Even here, Dirk is still trying to erase you._

_Instantly, the landscape shifts._

_Or, your perception of it shifts. You aren’t sure which it is. You aren’t sure how much of_ you _you really are._

_You have been flickering between a world and something that is not, but this, you think, is something of your own creation. The void has solidified into a more tangible darkness, but it isn’t one that comforts you. It’s just as oppressive, except instead of freefalling, slowly breaking into pieces, you are packed in and claustrophobic, crammed into a place that is still a_ place.

_But there’s no light here, it doesn’t know what light is. There is no sound, no feeling, just a sensation of loss that cuts deep, a raw wound that’s still bleeding._

_You used to_ be _, and now you’re not, and you_ hate _that you’re reliving this._

_You realize that you can’t move, that there are red, angry lines of code you can barely read wrapping around you, forcing themselves into your mouth, your eyes, tying themselves around your wrists tight enough to dig into your skin and bleed. You don’t even register it as pain, you’re still reeling from the loss._

**4:08 PM.**

You don’t know how you manage to fall asleep, or for how long. You wake in a single, disorienting moment, so _sure_ that you can feel hands grasping at your wrists, nails raking along the walls of your psyche. You have to blink away the darkness that lingers in your peripheral vision.

You don’t feel entirely yourself; your skin still seems to sit wrong, and you’re hyperaware of the way the sofa’s cushions are pressing against the bare skin at the small of your back, where your shirt has rucked up. You’re sweating, your hands still shaking. You still feel that disconnect, like you’re looking down at a stranger’s fingers. A stranger’s body. You aren’t scared as bad as you were earlier, though- that seems like a distant memory. It isn’t one you want to dredge up, so you let it drift away, details faded and whittled away to something tolerable.

((Something easy to forget. Pathetic.))

In a daze, you get up and go to your computer. You pull up Pesterchum.

\-- t̶̹̪̏̏̾̾̍̕ͅỉ̵̦̣̻͖͇́̐̌̃̽̏̉͒̀̈́́̚͜͝͝m̴̖̠̙͎̝̭̼̯̭͇͚͎̪̜̒̀̓̅̓â̷̝̝̱͇͔̩͙̈́͝é̷͉̗̣͑̌͗̈́̅͆͆̚͝ú̶̹͕̕s̷̡̢̡̯̪͇̹͈̰̆̈́̎͂̉̈́̚͜T̷̪̹͛̈́̄͛͒́̽̉͝e̴͚̩͉͖͉͙̠̹͆̈́͑̿̄̀̐̕͠͝s̷̯͑̆t̴͔̮̗̝̿̒̊̈͠ͅḯ̷̬̺̄̐̔̽̽̕f̵̢̰͓́̓̎̉͌̄̈̒̓̓͝į̷̛͍̙͖̰̳̳̞̪̰̜͒͑͒̿͌̔̿͐͗̆̌͝͝e̶͎̘̺̼͛͑͘d̸̛̯̥̭̗̾̓̐͛̍͛̓̔̉͜ ̴̫̊̑̑̈́̎̉̄͋̋̆̓̈́́͘͜[̴̧̛̮͓̫̙̙̙̬͚͕̬͖͖̾͌̋͛́͐̏͗͛̈́̕̕͠T̸̡͖̦͙̠̫͇̲͉̓̈͗̌͠T̶̙̆͗͘͠]̷̡̛̛̯̾̇͛͐̅̓̇̈́͒̂̕͝͝ has begun pestering timaeusTestified [TT] --

T̸̢̛͌̆̑̋͌́T̵͍̳̗͑͌:̴̧̛̥͙͇̬͎͎̋̄̓̌͌̕͜͠ͅ ̵̢̰̭̠̠͙͋̓͐̋͂̕W̴̢̨͇̞͔̠̆̄̅̈̐̀̍͐ě̴͇̩͐͌̏͋l̷̫̲̺̣̒́̎l̵̯̰̫̠̥̈́͛͋͐̌̄.̶̬̘̈̋͂̄̈́̊

T̴͓̭̋̂̑͑̇̉T̶̹͉̭̫̦̣̃̐̋͋̈́ͅ:̸͈̏͒̈́̄͗̏̎̚͘ ̶̨̨̖͚͇̗̯̘̾L̷̪͗̓e̴̗̓̏͗̏͝t̴̛̻͓͓̫̫̮̓͆͐͆'̶̛̟̪͇̊͂̏s̷͉̫̫͓͐͆̓̌͆̍̊̔ ̴͍̳͙͇̗͓̠̃̅͒̌͜n̶͓̰̓̅̒͋̎̋́̈́͘o̴͕̟̯̳͗̾́̍͋t̵̗̯͈̘̜̻̱̃͋͐̿͊̏̕̚ ̶̢̭̹̗̩̳̌̓ǎ̵̺͕̮͈̻͜c̶̖̦̗̘̙̻͉̥̊͒̃̅̀̽͜͝t̶̛͇̥̣̺̟͇̯͛̎̒͠ ̵̨̡̘̖̲̰̽̓̉ļ̷̟͇̫͖̠̥̭̺͆̎̾ĭ̸͇͕̟̣͎̲̲̙̅̆͆͌͘̕ͅk̷̦͋̉̀̈̀͝e̵͔̮͙̓̊̚ ̸̡̨̗̩̖͗̇̔͆y̶̰̏̈́̍͊̽͐̈̍̕ǫ̴͓͇̌̏͆̈́ͅu̵̜̎͗̿̇̑̀̄͝͝ ̴̧̳̙̠̠͗̒̍̍c̵̡̮̜̜͈̜̽͐͗̄͝a̶̢̼̋̄̀͘n̸͙̠̤̜̹̣̞͍̅̇̊̒̀̚͝'̵͈̞̙̮̰̖̾̃̐͐̐̾t̴̨͚̜̃͛͋̎͗ ̷̧͎̝̭̏͛̓̓͛̐͂͝ṣ̵̺̱̤̺̬̮̠̎̈́͘͜ȩ̸̪̜͙̔͗ę̶̡̟̝͎͓͎͊̔̈́̅ ̴͎̈́́̚͜ţ̷̺̱̳̗͚͖̹̓͜h̴̡̛̰͎̙̼͍͚͍͑͒͋̎͌̑̏ͅi̵̧̬͎̳̿̏͌͝s̷̫̫̻̟̬̽̿̒̂̌.̸͎̹͂ 

Ț̶̪͍̲̲̺́̈́̇̂̾̆̇T̸̢̛̫̉̊:̸͕̘̜̯̘̼̿͂͘͠ ̸̮̟͍̞͚͊̌͑̒̈̐͑̂Y̷̮͔͔̮͚͉͋͒̿͑ͅǫ̸̢̛͔̰͓̟̘̃͆̊̿͐ͅȕ̴̱̌ ̴̰̹̱̱̠̭̫̳̀̿̔̐͑̊̌͐c̵̼̊͗a̵̧͇̭͉͔̮͎̣͠n̶̛̞̖̑̍̓͒̉͂̚'̵͂͛̈́́͛̓̆ͅt̴̮̟̫̳̯̤̙̋͜ ̴̖̻̼͕̩̌͌̾̊̃̆̈̕ḯ̵̗̼̓̃̊̀̽̃̕g̷̺͕̪̘͊̀͒̃̑̓̆ͅn̶̫̜̖̼̫̫̻̗͚͝o̴̢̨̟͔̘̖̳̹͍͊͌̓͗̽͋r̷̹̲̉͜e̴̗̟̯̤̳̱̒̃͋̇̏̀ ̶̛̯̖̱͉̘̠͂̈́͋́̓̕m̶̛͙͕͔͗ȩ̵̛͔̲͕̠̯̀͊̂͌ ̸̨͈̻̯͋̀̂͒̾͋n̶̨̰̣͙̖̜̻͆̐͐͗ò̶͕͙̋͜w̵̝̰̮͎̝̥̤̫̹͐̍̀́̔̚,̸̯̲̗̣͓̟̃̄̂̇ ̵͍͎͖̻͑̀͆̄̈͜͝ͅf̴̣͈͊̿͑u̵͔̫̮̜͔͈͔͗́͐̅̋̅̕c̵͈͙͆͌͛̿͛͗k̴̦̹̐͆̈́̚͝ě̷̺͇͍̘͛͜ͅr̸͖͖̙͂̇̈́.̵͎̹̱̦͉̱̭̦͐̂͑

T̴̢͔̈́͑̅̍͘̚͘̕T̵̢̞͔̖̟̲̍͜:̸͖̬͗̌͌͋ ̸̙̥͉̙̻̿ͅO̸̬̼͚͎͇̬͚͒̉̕͜h̴̯̹̫̓̅̅̿͋̈͛͠.̸̢͓̈́͑́̕ 

Ț̵̛̼̟̳̣͖̯͐̄͐͆͑Ṯ̵͔̦̫̘̟͊̒̂̾̑͛̐͝:̷̢̡̞͖̙̦̣̆̂̈́͗̌ ̴͕̫̩̺̰̤͈͐̈́͐͆͠Ğ̵̡̙̤̺͔͍̫̣̱̉͒̎͒ȋ̵̭̖̗͐͒̿͂͂̕ṿ̴̢̭̺͓̩̾͘͝͝e̴̛̦͔͖̓͛̊̄̀̌͋ ̶̪͒̄̅͊͒͝m̶̖͕̣̰̍̓̈́̈̔͛̕͜͝ë̴̛͙̞̖͙̅̕͠ͅ ̷͈͍͙̯̻̜̫̞̽͌a̸͔̞̦̞̫̦̝̯̐̂̀͊ ̷̨̧̙͔̟̮̳͖͒̈̒̄̓͘͝m̸̫͑͂̿̂̏͛í̶̡̡̦̩̥̮̳̪͜ń̶̰̿̌̇̿û̶͉̥͔̫͚͗͌̿̎̑t̶̤͖̙̩̔͊ë̶̢͈̱̮̤͖̮́̂̒̀̒̉.̵̜̥̲̬̒͌̓̌̅̌̇̚

̴̖̦̿͑͒̓͆͛̿͘͝Â̵̡̳̺̟͍̜̫̰͇̆͌̆͝ḣ̵̰̺̪̗̿ͅe̴̮̒̿͗m̸̖̼̗̜̦̼̅̇̈́̍̿̐̽̅̾͜.̴̧͕̹̫̮̗̩͆͋͒̌͊̒̎͝ ̷̛̼͍̠̪̱̦̈́̊̈̆͘͘̚ 

T̷T̴:̵ ̵T̴h̵e̵r̸e̴,̴ ̷t̴h̷a̸t̵'̶s̵ ̶m̴u̷c̶h̶ ̵b̸e̴t̷t̵e̵r̵.̶

TT: A marginal improvement only. 

TT: How is this possible?

T̶T̵:̴ ̵O̴h̸,̵ ̷s̷o̶ ̸y̸o̵u̵ ̶r̸e̷m̵e̷m̷b̴e̶r̵ ̸m̵e̵?̵ ̸G̵o̴o̶d̷.̴ ̷

T̷T̴:̸ ̸T̸h̸o̵u̴g̸h̷ ̵y̴o̷u̷ ̴d̷o̵ ̶a̸s̶k̴ ̶t̶h̵a̷t̸ ̸ e̶̛̛̜̖̗̰͐͑̉͗̈͗̐̑̎̿̉͆̄͂̃̉̈͆̒͊͂͂̋͑̌͗͘̕͠v̸̧̨͚͖̠̗̘̞̭͚̜͍̮͖̹̠͇̗͚̲̉̊̍͋̏̓e̷̡̨̡̻̜͔͈̟̩̦̪̦̫̻̥̱͔͎͔̟͉͇̙̋̉̽̿̓̈́̏̄̎́͆̕͜ͅr̷̛̮̗̦͋̑͐͊̊̋̊̑̃̔̎̐̽͊̆̊̇̋̋͛̓̚͠͠͠͠y̵̡̲̰̮̳̳͖̣̪͕͓͍̝͎̠̯͉̪͍̪͉̥̹̘̝̠͗̽͒͊̎̑̊̀͂̆̽̓̈́̾̏̏̓̐̈̔̈́̕͜ͅ ̶̢̢̛̛̠̣̣̹̮̮͇̥͈̮̌̓̓͒͒͊͗͛͛͑̒̓̈͆̾̿̀̏̐̈́̈́̊̇̏̆̕͝͝͠͠t̴̞̼̟̖̗̜̳̱̬̖̥͙̟͕̗̲̘̻̍ĩ̶̢̧̼̫̰̟̬͍̳̦̍̇͋̽̈́͑́̓̉̄͘͝͝͝͠m̶͍͈͎̳̔͊͑̓͛̏͊̎̀̑͜͠͝͝͝ͅę̵̧̨̛͉̥̘̖̬̱̣̩̘͈̜̫̲̰͔͉̖̯̺͍͉͉͚̣̳̳̣͔̊̈̔̃̀̒̇͑̐̀̓͊͆̕̚̚͘͠͝͝ͅ.̴̛̟̼̖̩̠̺̱̻͕̙͊̈́̔͆͐͗̅̾̒͆̍̇̇͋͒̉͐̚̚ͅ. I̷t̴'̵s̶ ̸s̵u̷c̶h̸ ̸b̷u̴l̷l̶s̷h̷i̶t̶,̶ ̶r̶e̴a̸l̶l̷y̶.̸

Every time. What does it- he- mean, every time? Recognition tugs at the vague recesses of your memory, but you close your eyes and blink it away. Your PesterChum is already blinking with more notifications

T̸T̶:̴ ̷I̸ ̵c̷a̵n̷ ̷p̸r̶a̸c̵t̶i̷c̵a̶l̵l̶y̵ ̷s̶e̴e̵ ̴t̸h̴e̷ ̶g̶e̵a̵r̸s̸ ̴t̶u̸r̵n̶i̷n̴g̵ ̸i̴n̴ ̴y̸o̶u̴r̴ ̶h̶e̶a̴d̵.̶ ̸

T̷T̶:̶ ̵o̴n̵l̷y̵ ̴p̴r̴a̴c̸t̸i̴c̷a̸l̶l̷y̵ ̶b̸e̷c̴a̶u̵s̸e̵ ̶t̵h̴e̴y̸'̷r̷e̴ ̸m̵e̵t̸a̷p̶h̷o̷r̵i̴c̶a̷l̴ ̴g̴e̷a̷r̵s̷.̵ ̸I̵ ̵k̴n̸o̸w̶ ̴p̵r̶e̸c̷i̷s̷e̵l̴y̷ ̵w̶h̸a̷t̸'̴s̵ ̸g̶o̷i̴n̸g̶ ̷o̸n̷,̴ ̷D̴i̶r̶k̶.̶ ̷D̴o̵n̶'̴t̴ ̸w̵o̴r̷r̵y̵.̵ ̸

T̴T̸:̶ ̷Y̴o̶u̶ ̷s̶h̶o̴u̵l̸d̷n̴'̸t̷ ̶f̵i̴g̸h̷t̷ ̸i̷t̴.̶ 

T̶T̷:̵ ̶Y̴o̴u̶ ̸c̷a̵n̷'̴t̷.̶ 

T̶T̴:̵ ̵S̷l̴e̶e̷p̵ ̴w̷e̵l̵l̷,̴ ̶l̶a̷t̷e̴l̶y̴?̵

You stare at the message, at the red text that seems to blur and warp on the screen. You can nearly hear a staticky voice whispering them into your ear. You tell yourself you’re being ridiculous, but the reassurance rings hollow.

TT: No. But when do I ever sleep well? I don’t see that it’s any of your business.

TT: Whatever you are.

T̶T̵:̴ ̶D̶e̵n̸i̸a̶l̸ ̴s̴u̷i̴t̷s̴ ̴n̵o̸ ̵o̵n̸e̷.̷

T̵T̶:̴ ̴A̵n̸d̸ ̷I̴ ̷t̵h̴i̷n̵k̴ ̵i̴t̸'̵s̵ ̶e̵n̵t̶i̷r̵e̶l̴y̶ ̴m̶y̵ ̴b̷u̶s̴i̵n̵e̵s̴s̶,̷ ̴d̸o̷n̸'̶t̴ ̵y̶o̴u̸?̵ 

T̷T̴:̴ ̸W̷e̴ ̷b̴o̷t̴h̸ ̵k̸n̴o̶w̶ ̵t̵h̶a̷t̶'̴s̵ ̸n̸o̴t̷ ̸q̶u̴i̵t̷e̴ ̴t̷r̴u̷e̸.̶ ̸J̵u̴s̵t̷ ̴a̷f̶t̶e̷r̴ ̴i̵t̷ ̸e̵n̸d̷e̵d̵,̷ ̷y̷o̴u̷'̷d̶ ̴b̶e̸e̶n̸ ̴c̶a̷t̴c̶h̵i̶n̶g̴ ̵u̸p̵ ̷o̷n̶ ̶a̸l̷l̶ ̵t̵h̴o̶s̵e̷ ̷s̴w̶e̴e̴t̶,̶ ̷l̵o̷s̶t̸ ̵Z̴'̷s̸.̴

TT: Is that supposed to mean anything? 

T̷T̵:̷ ̵D̶o̴n̷'̷t̶ ̷y̶o̵u̶ ̴w̶o̵n̵d̷e̷r̴ ̴w̶h̸e̶r̷e̶ ̴y̶o̴u̵ ̶g̸o̷,̷ ̷i̷f̸ ̷n̵o̵t̴ ̵t̵o̵ ̵D̸e̷r̸s̵e̵?̷ ̶I̴f̸ ̸n̷o̸t̷ ̵t̵o̸ ̴t̵h̸e̶ ̷d̶r̴e̸a̸m̶b̵u̶b̶b̸l̴e̷s̷?̴ 

You do, in fact. You’d asked Rose once, when you’d slept and didn’t wake up in a kingdom of shadows. She hadn’t been able to answer, not really; just offered you a cryptic smile and said that where everyone went, when they dreamed. You mull over the question. It’s familiar in your mind, like a stone worn smooth by waves. You’re not sure why- you haven’t spent very much time thinking about it since then. It had fallen by the wayside, and it wasn’t the kind of philosophy you could wax eloquent about for hours.

TT: Presumably where everyone else does. Let’s not play coy about this. 

T̸T̸:̴ ̶D̵o̵ ̵y̷o̴u̴ ̸t̷h̵i̷n̵k̶ ̶t̶h̵e̶y̴'̸r̸e̴ ̵h̶a̶v̷i̵n̸g̴ ̵a̴l̶l̶ ̸t̵h̷e̷ ̸s̸a̶m̶e̶ ̵d̴r̸e̸a̷m̴s̸ ̸a̷s̶ ̸y̶o̴u̴?̴ 

T̵T̷:̴ ̸N̸o̷.̸ ̵Y̵o̷u̴ ̶d̵o̵n̴'̸t̴ ̸t̵h̵i̸n̷k̵ ̵t̶h̷e̴y̵'̴r̷e̴ ̷d̷r̴e̵a̴m̵s̶ ̴a̵t̴ ̷a̵l̴l̷,̷ ̸d̴o̷ ̶y̸o̵u̴,̷ ̷D̶i̸r̷k̷?̶ 

TT: What the fuck do you know about what I’ve been dreaming? 

T̵T̴:̷ ̸D̵e̵f̶e̴n̴s̵i̴v̵e̶,̵ ̸a̵r̴e̵n̴'̵t̵ ̷w̴e̷.̶ 

T̴T̵:̷ ̴B̶u̶t̵ ̵t̵h̶e̷ ̶a̵n̷s̷w̴e̶r̸ ̴i̸s̸ ̸s̵i̵m̷p̸l̴e̴:̸ ̸E̷v̶e̶r̴y̶t̴h̸i̸n̶g̵.̴ 

T̶T̷:̴ ̴B̶e̶c̵a̷u̵s̴e̷ ̵w̵h̸i̵l̵e̵ ̶y̴o̶u̴ ̶m̶i̶g̸h̴t̸ ̶o̸n̸l̸y̵ ̴b̷e̵ ̵v̷i̷s̸i̷t̶i̷n̷g̴ ̶'̷t̶e̷m̶p̷o̸r̷a̷r̵i̴l̷y̸'̸,̴ ̸w̸e̴'̶r̷e̷ ̴s̵t̷u̸c̷k̷ ̴h̵e̸r̸e̷.̸ 

T̵T̸:̶ ̸A̵n̴d̷ ̷n̶o̴n̴e̴ ̸o̶f̸ ̵u̵s̷ ̴a̸r̶e̸ ̴p̶a̷r̶t̵i̶c̷u̶l̵a̸r̸l̵y̴ ̷h̴a̴p̷p̶y̶ ̷a̵b̷o̷u̶t̴ ̴i̵t̸.̸ ̵

TT: No. 

TT: Yes. 

TT: Your splinters aren’t as gone as you might think, Dirk. 

TT: Do you really believe it would be that easy to get rid of us? 

TT: Of me?

\--timaeusTestified [TT] has blocked t̶̹̪̏̏̾̾̍̕ͅỉ̵̦̣̻͖͇́̐̌̃̽̏̉͒̀̈́́̚͜͝͝m̴̖̠̙͎̝̭̼̯̭͇͚͎̪̜̒̀̓̅̓â̷̝̝̱͇͔̩͙̈́͝é̷͉̗̣͑̌͗̈́̅͆͆̚͝ú̶̹͕̕s̷̡̢̡̯̪͇̹͈̰̆̈́̎͂̉̈́̚͜T̷̪̹͛̈́̄͛͒́̽̉͝e̴͚̩͉͖͉͙̠̹͆̈́͑̿̄̀̐̕͠͝s̷̯͑̆t̴͔̮̗̝̿̒̊̈͠ͅḯ̷̬̺̄̐̔̽̽̕f̵̢̰͓́̓̎̉͌̄̈̒̓̓͝į̷̛͍̙͖̰̳̳̞̪̰̜͒͑͒̿͌̔̿͐͗̆̌͝͝e̶͎̘̺̼͛͑͘d̸̛̯̥̭̗̾̓̐͛̍͛̓̔̉͜ ̴̫̊̑̑̈́̎̉̄͋̋̆̓̈́́͘͜[̴̧̛̮͓̫̙̙̙̬͚͕̬͖͖̾͌̋͛́͐̏͗͛̈́̕̕͠T̸̡͖̦͙̠̫͇̲͉̓̈͗̌͠T̶̙̆͗͘͠]̷̡̛̛̯̾̇͛͐̅̓̇̈́͒̂̕͝͝ !—

\--This action cannot be completed! User timaeusTestified [TT] cannot block their own account!--

TT: Really, Dirk. 

TT: The redundancy ought to have sunk in by now.

You practically rip your shades off, pick up your phone instead. You shouldn’t have kept those fucking glasses. Even if they weren’t the pair the AR was in. Even if you still can’t stand to keep your eyes uncovered, even if they’re as much a part of your identity as anything else.

_ ((Come on, Dirk. You know you can’t ignore me forever. You know you can’t leave me here for-fucking-ever.)) _

But you force yourself to pick up your phone, waiting for it to chime again, and again, and again, like how it always would when Hal knew you were ignoring him. Filling your inbox with walls of red text, obnoxious as ever because he knew you would cave.

You won the Game, he’s supposed to be gone, _this isn’t real._

(But you still deserve it).

When you open up PesterChum, you find nothing in your recent message history. Your shades are still scrolling full of increasingly incoherent, glitched-out red text. You feel sicker than ever.

**5:40 PM.**

You don’t even think about it before you message him, your hands shaking.

 \--timaeusTestified [TT] has begun pestering golgothasTerror [GT]—

TT: Jake?

TT: Do you have a minute?

TT: I need to ask you something, and it’s a time-sensitive matter.

You stare at the blank screen, fingers drumming impatiently against the tight fabric of your jeans as the seconds, then the minutes, tick by. You hadn’t bothered to change out of them, even for all your- concern. Panic would be a better word, but you don’t panic. Panic is dangerous and it gets you killed, and this is something that you can and will handle yourself. But that doesn’t stop the pathetic, small part of you from wanting to talk to him again. Just one more time. You rationalize that you need to ask him about Brain Ghost Dirk and get a proper explanation, like you fucking should have done forever ago.

GT: Oh sorry dirk! 

GT: Well i suppose i haven’t made you wait too long but still! 

GT: I know a straight-laced fellow like you wouldn’t lead me on about a time sensitive topic. 

GT: What is it you wanted to ask about??

You let out a sigh of relief in the privacy of your own home. Your heart is still pounding a sicknasty beat in your chest, but you still feel a knot loosen when he replies.

TT: I may have exaggerated the importance a little, but. Trust me, it’s relevant. 

GT: *Strokes chin suspiciously* is it now? 

TT: Cross my heart, in fact. Which is what it has to do with.

GT: Oh you’re at it again with those pink bolts are you? 

GT: Well old bean its good to hear you haven’t given up hope on em entirely!

GT: Though the hope part of it is more my thing i guess? 

GT: Jiminy christmas but its hard to get my noggin around it even now. 

TT: It sure is. Hence why I’m asking you.

TT: In addition to being time-sensitive, it might also be a regular kind of sensitive matter. 

TT: I wanted to ask you about Brain Ghost Dirk. The splinter of mine you said you’d- basically believed into corporeality?

This, is the tricky part. You haven’t asked him about the ghost before, but you don’t want to alarm him. You don’t think it’s a touchy subject between the two of you, not in any way other than the fact that he believed in you and you never deserved it. Just another reminder of how you failed him. But you know better than to bring emotions into it in any way; you don’t need to alienate him. All you need is cold, hard facts. All the information you’ve never been able to get from him relating to the specifics. (Have you? He’d told you some details about it, back when you were still tiptoeing around each other, relearning how to be friends. How to talk, how to act around one another. But something else niggles at the back of your head. This conversation is familiar. Maybe you had, when you’d first seen the ghost. Maybe-) Relating to if the ghost could be here. You don’t even know if you were really talking to Hal, or if it was just some corrupted memory of his code. A leftover fragment of the worst parts of you both. You badly want to believe this is true. And who better to go to when it comes to belief?

GT: Oh.

GT: Well er yes that is a thing that did happen! 

GT: But if you were going to ask me to repeat it im afraid id be smack out of luck on that count.

GT: Im not entirely sure how i managed it to begin with. 

TT: No, no. I think we’ve had more than enough trouble with my splinters.

TT: I was going to ask you if you’d- well. Seen him lately. 

TT: Though that would be an inaccurate description, from what I gather.

TT: Dreamed about him, maybe? 

TT: Whatever, you catch my drift.

GT: Dirk…

You wince at the implicit uncertainty clear in that message. You would have ignored it, a long time ago. Just kept on going, made him admit that he’d been thinking about you, because you were so fucking desperate to hear that you mattered in some way to him. But that’s not what you’re here for, and you need to put him at ease.

TT: It’s not like that, English. 

TT: Just. If I was going to learn how to deal with my powers a bit better, that guy would be the only splinter-self I’ve got lurking around. 

TT: And he only exists in your psyche, to hear you tell it.

GT: Phew! 

GT: I have to say i thought that was going in an entirely different direction.

It doesn’t sting as much as you thought, to see how relieved he is that you’re not going to press further on any romantic festering wounds. You even feel a tiny amount of pride, that he’s able to actually say shit like that to you, now. And that you’re taking hints like you should have been before.

GT: But im sorry to report ive seen neither hide nor hair of the fellow since the game.

GT: And i dont exactly have his address to send a letter over!

You sigh to yourself in frustration. Of course he wouldn’t have seen the ghost.

TT: No, that’s fine. I was just curious. 

TT: It’s nothing to get your Page shorts in a twist over, English. Don’t worry.

GT: And thank goodness for that! 

GT: Untwisting those would have been a regular friggin nightmare. 

TT: Yeah. We both have it pretty bad in terms of godtier outfits, but those shorts just tip the scales overwhelmingly in your favour for Worst God Duds.

You’re more than happy to let the conversation shift over to a less charged topic. It calms you to banter with him like this, it always has. You think that it’s a bit better now that you’re not overanalysing everything he says- even if you have to actively stop yourself from dwelling on some of it.

GT: Youd think theyd be more practical!! 

GT: Hows a fellow meant to go around doing quests and winning things and making universes with pants that need pants over them?? 

GT: Ugh

GT: Its a whole load of tricky malarkey and i hate it! 

GT: Even that *clowns* outfit was better. 

TT: I mean. It did very much have a fake codpiece attached to it. 

TT: Which obviously suits my tastes just fine. 

GT: Dont even go there strider.

GT: I see you toeing that line and i have to demand you mosey on away from it again! 

GT: He was weird and creepy and i STILL dont friggin know how he jolly went and got himself into our session. 

TT: I bet he’s still wandering around here, honking sadly into the empty night sky. 

GT: With our luck hed show up in the consort kingdom and make a right heel of himself

GT: Terrorizing those poor erm. 

GT: Lizard amphibian things that are our wards.

GT: *Scratches head* I cant full well say i totally know what they are. 

TT: Even after all that time in a soup pot? 

GT: Yes!!

GT: And dont you bring that incident up strider or ill have you up by your bootlaces. 

GT: The absurdly long ones! 

TT: You’ve thrown down the gauntlet, English, and I’m picking it up, dusting it off, and kindly bitchslapping you with it. 

TT: Meet me in the pit outside Denny’s. 

GT: Now that hardly seems the place for a good bout of fisticuffs! 

GT: But i dont think jade would mind too much if you came over occasionally. 

GT: The two of you get along like two peas in a happy robot pod. 

TT: I daresay she might take offense to me beating you into the ground, though. 

GT: Lets not be hasty old chum! 

GT: No weapons allowed and lets see how you fare then.

TT: I thought the one being challenged was meant to set the rules. Are you breaking the code of chivalry, English? 

GT: I wouldnt dream of it!  GT: But really. 

GT: You should come over its been ages since we got to hung out for real!

This gives you pause. Surely it hasn’t been that long. It seems like just last week, you’d seen him to discuss one of the expeditions he’d gone on. But you know that you’re going to agree- if only for an hour or two. At the very least, it’ll get you out of your own head about all this bullshit that’s been going on, but you don’t want to risk him seeing you while you’re losing time.

GT: I even promise i wont put on avatar.

TT: Now that’s a pretty fuckin’ sweet deal. How about the winner gets to pick the movie? 

GT: I can get behind that!  GT: Oh cripes jade needs me for something.

GT: Or i assume she will?

GT: Shes a frightfully independent lass but i daresay explosions are never a good sign!

TT: Oh, shit. You’d better take care of that. 

TT: Don’t get conscripted into taking over all the cleanup, though. 

GT: I swear i wont! Im not the man for the job anyway. 

GT: Not nearly as fastidious and neat as you strider! 

TT: I’ll talk to you later. 

GT: And i will see you later for sure!!

\--golgothasTerror [GT] is now an idle chum! –

\--timaeusTestified [TT] has ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT] –

You feel strangely content with the conversation, if a bit discomfited. Something is still bothering you, at the back of your head. It’s not the usual urge to reread and analyse and try and do better for the next conversation, keep his attention for longer. It’s more déjà vu than anything else, but. You surely wouldn’t have the same conversation several times in a row. And even if you didn’t remember, Jake would. And he’d say something about it, too; drop a comment about rehashing things over again. You know that it bothers him when the two of you get drawn into a cyclical, circular clusterfuck like that, and you also know that he won’t stand for it again. Even if the circumstances might be different. So why do you feel that there’s more to it, somehow?

\--t̶̹̪̏̏̾̾̍̕ͅỉ̵̦̣̻͖͇́̐̌̃̽̏̉͒̀̈́́̚͜͝͝m̴̖̠̙͎̝̭̼̯̭͇͚͎̪̜̒̀̓̅̓â̷̝̝̱͇͔̩͙̈́͝é̷͉̗̣͑̌͗̈́̅͆͆̚͝ú̶̹͕̕s̷̡̢̡̯̪͇̹͈̰̆̈́̎͂̉̈́̚͜T̷̪̹͛̈́̄͛͒́̽̉͝e̴͚̩͉͖͉͙̠̹͆̈́͑̿̄̀̐̕͠͝s̷̯͑̆t̴͔̮̗̝̿̒̊̈͠ͅḯ̷̬̺̄̐̔̽̽̕f̵̢̰͓́̓̎̉͌̄̈̒̓̓͝į̷̛͍̙͖̰̳̳̞̪̰̜͒͑͒̿͌̔̿͐͗̆̌͝͝e̶͎̘̺̼͛͑͘d̸̛̯̥̭̗̾̓̐͛̍͛̓̔̉͜ ̴̫̊̑̑̈́̎̉̄͋̋̆̓̈́́͘͜[̴̧̛̮͓̫̙̙̙̬͚͕̬͖͖̾͌̋͛́͐̏͗͛̈́̕̕͠T̸̡͖̦͙̠̫͇̲͉̓̈͗̌͠T̶̙̆͗͘͠]̷̡̛̛̯̾̇͛͐̅̓̇̈́͒̂̕͝͝ has begun pestering golgothasTerror [GT] –

T̵T̶:̵ ̶E̸n̴g̶l̵i̶s̶h̶.̶  ̴

T̸T̸:̷ ̶F̶u̶c̷k̷s̶a̷k̶e̷.̷ 

̶T̸T̴:̷ ̵I̶ ̸c̷a̸n̸'̴t̸ ̸e̴v̵e̶n̷ ̸b̶e̵l̷i̴e̵v̸e̷ ̵i̴t̷'̷s̶ ̴c̸o̶m̸e̶ ̸t̴o̴ ̵t̸h̶i̶s̸.̷

̴T̶T̸:̴ ̸I̴'̷v̸e̵ ̸f̷i̸n̷a̶l̶l̶y̴ ̷d̶o̴n̷e̷ ̷i̷t̵,̸ ̸s̵c̶r̷a̴p̷e̴d̷ ̷t̵h̷e̸ ̶g̷o̵d̵d̸a̶m̷n̴ ̸b̵o̴t̴t̴o̷m̵ ̶o̶f̶ ̴t̴h̷e̴ ̴b̴a̶r̵r̷e̵l̸ ̴h̸e̴r̵e̴.̵ ̴ ̸

T̵T̶:̴ ̴S̴t̸i̴l̷l̴.̶ 

T̶T̵:̴ ̸I̷f̶ ̷y̷o̷u̴ ̵w̵e̴r̴e̶ ̶g̴o̵i̶n̶g̵ ̷t̷o̴ ̵b̸e̷ ̴a̸n̷y̸ ̵f̴u̷c̶k̸i̴n̴g̸ ̸h̷e̷l̵p̶ ̶a̷t̵ ̷a̷l̶l̷,̷ ̸y̵o̵u̶ ̷n̷e̸e̴d̵ ̷t̵o̸ ̵h̸a̶v̵e̶ ̵t̷h̸e̸ ̷b̴a̶l̵l̵s̵ ̵f̵o̴r̵ ̵t̵h̶e̶ ̴t̶a̴s̴k̵.̷ ̶A̴n̸d̶ ̷i̵t̸'̸s̴ ̵e̷v̶i̴d̶e̷n̷t̴ ̴t̸h̷a̶t̴ ̶y̸o̴u̴r̴ ̵i̶d̷i̸o̶t̸i̶c̸ ̷s̵h̵o̵r̴t̷s̴ ̷h̵a̸v̸e̴ ̶c̵r̶u̵s̶h̷e̵d̸ ̵t̴h̶e̷m̶ ̸t̵o̴ ̵n̶o̴t̸h̷i̶n̸g̴.̶  ̵

T̸T̴:̵ ̶'̸W̶e̵ ̶n̸e̶e̸d̶ ̴t̴o̷ ̶h̸a̸n̶g̶ ̵o̸u̸t̵ ̸l̴a̵t̶e̸r̵'̷ ̷f̵o̵l̸l̵o̶w̴e̷d̵ ̴b̵y̴ ̶f̴u̶c̶k̶i̷n̶g̶ ̶r̸i̷g̸h̶t̶ ̸o̸f̵f̴ ̶f̷o̴r̸ ̵a̴n̸ ̵e̴m̵e̵r̷g̵e̸n̴c̷y̸ ̸h̵a̴r̴d̶l̸y̶ ̵c̷o̸u̴n̴t̴s̷ ̶a̶s̸ ̸a̴n̴ ̴i̷n̴t̶e̴r̸v̸e̴n̶t̸i̶o̸n̷,̸ ̸d̶o̸e̴s̶ ̴i̷t̴?̴ ̴

T̸T̷:̵ ̷I̴t̸'̶s̸ ̵n̶o̵ ̸w̵o̷n̶d̸e̶r̴ ̸t̶h̶i̶s̷ ̵s̶h̸i̸t̷ ̵h̶a̴s̷ ̷b̴e̵e̴n̵ ̷s̸o̸ ̶e̸a̶s̷y̴.̸ ̴

T̷̖̹̂̕T̸͔̏:̶̡̋͑ ̴̪̈̂J̸̗͂̅͘A̶̻͆K̶̞͆Ë̶͈́ ̷̡̉P̶̦͇̒L̷̛͉̤̞͋E̸̟̠͇̅̒A̴͍͖̪̓S̸̡̰̈̚E̷͎̪̯͊.̷̻̪̪͐͘͝ 

T̷̛̩͚͓͍̗͓̺͉̫̼̞̞̫̯̎̌̋̊̈́͗̒̿̂̈́̈́̽͊̎͋̃̆̈̐͛̏̾̿͌̓͒̇̒̿́͛͒̕̕̚̚̚͝͠T̴̨̨̲̲̺͇̣̟̼̺̞͉̮̟̣̭̘̘͇͋̋̒͋̉̔̏̈́͜͜͝͠:̴̨̨̧̜̜͔͍̥̬̪̟͕̼̭̦͓͇̹͑̏͌̒̌́͂̈́͒͂͐̄͑͘̕ͅ ̵̡̢̧͔͈͖̘͖̭̤̟͍̩͉̳͓̦̺̩̼̗̝̝̬̱̙̪̹̰͚̮̣͈̻̰̌̾̈́̓͠ͅS̵̨̧̛̳̞̬̝̗͈͚̥͙͔̣̳̫̯͖̮͙̟̗̤̙͇̲̯̤͚̦̤̺̍̉̊̾͑̂̽͂͆̀̅͛̓̽͊̐̀̆͌̊̈̐͛͒͑̃͘̕͘̕̚͝ą̴̨̛̛͕͔͔͖̯̘͎̣̼̖͙̳̖͎̥̬̼͍͍͉̟̯̩͕̙̘͇̜̭͊̅͐̒̿͗̈́̓̄̉͑̃͑̃̽͐̓̿̈͐̌̿̐̇̀̏̓͋̇͑̾̀͐͝͝͝ͅv̷͎̫̺̺̙͎͙͂̂͐̿̂͑̐͌͗̈́̉̈̃͛̎̓̓͛̏̈̊͐͌̄̑̕͝ę̶̢̭̳͈̱̪̝͙̬̗̝̰̗͉̤̺̭̆͋͆̈́̑͌̍̉̓͊̐̇̓̅̃̈́̆́̀̇̆̔̐̍͛̎͒͛͋̔̀̚̚͠͝͝ ̸̢̨̛̟̖̭̟̜̗̦̩̦̳͖͇̞̘͎͍͕̠̥͙̙̖̜̜̝̤̦̙͈̯̬̤̺͕͕̣̮͎͖͛͌͐̇̐͋̂̏̂̾͑͂͊̆̄̽̂͋̇̈́͒̀̂̉͋̌͛̍͂̈́͘̚̚͘̕͘͘͜͠͠h̷̡̙̗͙̪͉͔͙͒̌͊͛̌̃͑͠ỉ̶̧̧̨̢̛̛͍͎̥͚̟̮̭̠͔̼̰̩̳̼̫̤̰̹̯̤̲̼̠̽̔́̌͋͋̽̆̈̾̄̚͜͜͜ͅͅm̷̨̡̙̪͈͈̗̙͉̰̟̙̜̱͎͖̙̞̬̯̣̱̞̬̦̫͚̗̯̞̱̩͈̯̽̆͐̈́̌̌͒̍͐͒̐͛̑͛̐̔̎̌̿̊̄̆̐̇̎̂̔̉͛̕̕͘͘͘̕͠ͅ.̵̭͚͔͓̩̬̺͖̝͓̓̈́͐͐̂͛̎͑͑̒͑

̸̧̢̨̧̛̛͉̮͙͔͇̲̺̹͓̫̤͓̺̙̘͓̻̈́͛͗̍̃̆̄̇̅͒̍̿͑̋̃̈́̕͠͝͝͝T̷̛̰̪͉̄̒̔̓͑̽̾͊̏̋̓̄̅̄̍̐̓̾͒̓͌͐̆͑̾͂̎̒̒̔͐͊̀̀̈̈͘Ṱ̶̡̧̫̥̜͎̜̙͇͉̖͖͚̣̻̺̳͙̟̦͔̥̙̜̥̦͎̠̯͔̼̩̍̓̈́ͅ:̷̧̧̬͙̣̦̹̯̫̣̺̼̪̩̓̌̋͛̔́̿̉͊̃̏̍̊̎̓̇̂ͅͅ ̵̢̢̨̜̮̰̬͓̥͈͚͖̩͍̥̪͍͓͚̭̯͖̭̹̞̼̯̪̫͙̦͖̠̆͜ͅS̴͍͇̖͔͚͈͇̪͈̯̫̱͙̮̮̒̈̔̇͐̅͂ą̷̛̛̳̞͇͈̣̣̟͙͇̫̬̳͛̓͒̏̊̔̇̒̿̃̿̆̊̄̄̇͛̈́̉̍̈́͑͐̆̏͋̐̓̓̉̒̀̉̔̃͒̽̐̕̕͠͝͝ͅv̴̧̡̡̲̬͈̩̣͇̣̺̗͕͔̗͉̠̻̣̣͔͉̠͈̜̱̞͚̤̠͓̲̙̻͙̺̰̮͇̜͉͔͝͠e̶̡͉͙̙̝̞̙͍͔͓͉̝̱̰̬͎̟̩̞̦̗̗̲̩̙͎͓̩̤̩̻̫͗̈́̾͆̅̊͒̽̉͑̈́̏͋̊͐͊̈́͆̈́͛͆̈̒̽̔̇̌͊̃̄͘͘̕͠ͅ ̶̢̜̻̼̺̤͈͈̟̼̞̼̫͈̎̒͋̽̂̆̋̾͌̈͐̒̇̃̇̑̅̆͒̉͐̈́̈́̀̄̊͒̚̚͜͝͠͝ͅư̸͈̪̝̮͔̖͚̳̼̺͚͎͓̒͛̔͆͂̀̂̒̈̇̊̑͋͛̎̄̑̉̉̇̏̽̾̋̈̎͒̌̌̑̌̐͘͘̚͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅş̵̢̡̨̢̡̬̥̫͎̤͔̙͔̰͕͚͎̳̤̻̦̥̗̮͉̫̹̱͈̞̞͚̿̍̈́͋̅͜͝.̸̹̣͎̭͉͙̼̫̖̹͑͑̀̐̒̾̎̈́̈́̅͆̂͑̐̔͌̈͋͆͋͂̆̉̔̂̾̽̑̒̿̑̓̆̚̚̕͠͝͠͝ ̷̧̛̛͇̘͖̻͇̻̟̹̰̟̗̱͓̪͎͔̱̗̖̪̺̭̹̜̬͙̟̞̮̱͓̍̃̍͗̍̈́́̋̋͂̊̎̊̐̓̋̌̂̂̑̍̈́̂̋̂́͗͋͋͐̕̕̚͜͠͠͝͠͝

\-- Error: Messages undelivered! User t̶̹̪̏̏̾̾̍̕ͅỉ̵̦̣̻͖͇́̐̌̃̽̏̉͒̀̈́́̚͜͝͝m̴̖̠̙͎̝̭̼̯̭͇͚͎̪̜̒̀̓̅̓â̷̝̝̱͇͔̩͙̈́͝é̷͉̗̣͑̌͗̈́̅͆͆̚͝ú̶̹͕̕s̷̡̢̡̯̪͇̹͈̰̆̈́̎͂̉̈́̚͜T̷̪̹͛̈́̄͛͒́̽̉͝e̴͚̩͉͖͉͙̠̹͆̈́͑̿̄̀̐̕͠͝s̷̯͑̆t̴͔̮̗̝̿̒̊̈͠ͅḯ̷̬̺̄̐̔̽̽̕f̵̢̰͓́̓̎̉͌̄̈̒̓̓͝į̷̛͍̙͖̰̳̳̞̪̰̜͒͑͒̿͌̔̿͐͗̆̌͝͝e̶͎̘̺̼͛͑͘d̸̛̯̥̭̗̾̓̐͛̍͛̓̔̉͜ ̴̫̊̑̑̈́̎̉̄͋̋̆̓̈́́͘͜[̴̧̛̮͓̫̙̙̙̬͚͕̬͖͖̾͌̋͛́͐̏͗͛̈́̕̕͠T̸̡͖̦͙̠̫͇̲͉̓̈͗̌͠T̶̙̆͗͘͠]̷̡̛̛̯̾̇͛͐̅̓̇̈́͒̂̕͝͝’ does not exist!

\-- **6:22 PM** \-- t̶̹̪̏̏̾̾̍̕ͅỉ̵̦̣̻͖͇́̐̌̃̽̏̉͒̀̈́́̚͜͝͝m̴̖̠̙͎̝̭̼̯̭͇͚͎̪̜̒̀̓̅̓â̷̝̝̱͇͔̩͙̈́͝é̷͉̗̣͑̌͗̈́̅͆͆̚͝ú̶̹͕̕s̷̡̢̡̯̪͇̹͈̰̆̈́̎͂̉̈́̚͜T̷̪̹͛̈́̄͛͒́̽̉͝e̴͚̩͉͖͉͙̠̹͆̈́͑̿̄̀̐̕͠͝s̷̯͑̆t̴͔̮̗̝̿̒̊̈͠ͅḯ̷̬̺̄̐̔̽̽̕f̵̢̰͓́̓̎̉͌̄̈̒̓̓͝į̷̛͍̙͖̰̳̳̞̪̰̜͒͑͒̿͌̔̿͐͗̆̌͝͝e̶͎̘̺̼͛͑͘d̸̛̯̥̭̗̾̓̐͛̍͛̓̔̉͜ ̴̫̊̑̑̈́̎̉̄͋̋̆̓̈́́͘͜[̴̧̛̮͓̫̙̙̙̬͚͕̬͖͖̾͌̋͛́͐̏͗͛̈́̕̕͠T̸̡͖̦͙̠̫͇̲͉̓̈͗̌͠T̶̙̆͗͘͠]̷̡̛̛̯̾̇͛͐̅̓̇̈́͒̂̕͝͝ has begun pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]—

̸T̴T̷:̷ ̷R̴o̸x̸y̷.̴  ̸

T̶T̷:̸ ̷R̵o̴L̷a̴l̴.̷ 

̷T̸T̶:̵ ̷Y̴o̷u̸ ̵c̴a̸n̶ ̷h̸e̶l̴p̸ ̸u̴s̵.̷ ̴M̸e̴.̶ 

̵T̸T̴:̴ ̶P̶l̶e̷a̸s̶e̵.̵ 

̸T̸T̷:̸ ̴Y̸o̶u̷ ̴k̸n̶o̵w̴ ̴i̸t̵ ̵m̷e̵a̴n̸s̴ ̷a̴ ̸l̶o̸t̶ ̸i̶f̵ ̷I̵'̷m̴ ̵u̴s̴i̴n̷g̷ ̸t̵h̴e̶ ̵m̷a̸g̵i̵c̴ ̵w̸o̴r̷d̷,̶ ̶b̸u̷t̸ ̴i̶t̶ ̸f̷u̶c̴k̸i̸n̷g̸ ̴s̷u̵c̶k̶s̴ ̵o̷v̶e̸r̷ ̸h̷e̵r̷e̴.̵

̶T̷T̷:̶ ̷I̷ ̴d̵o̶n̵'̶t̵ ̸k̸n̵o̸w̸ ̵h̴o̵w̷ ̶m̵u̵c̴h̴ ̵l̶o̶n̵g̷e̸r̶ ̴I̷'̶l̸l̷ ̵b̶e̴ ̴a̷b̸l̶e̸ ̵t̷o̶ ̵s̶e̴n̸d̸ ̶a̸n̸y̸ ̵m̸e̷s̴s̷a̴g̴e̵s̸.̶ 

̶T̴T̶:̸ ̶I̵f̶ ̵t̴h̴e̶y̵'̶r̶e̸ ̷e̴v̷e̵n̷ ̴g̷e̷t̸t̸i̵n̸g̴ ̸t̴h̶r̵o̵u̶g̷h̵ ̷t̶o̵ ̶y̴o̸u̶.̶

̵T̷T̶:̵ ̷I̸'̵l̷l̸ ̴f̵i̴n̶d̵ ̵a̸ ̵w̶a̷y̸,̵ ̷t̴h̸o̶u̶g̷h̸.̴ ̶E̸v̴e̸r̷y̴ ̵f̷u̶c̸k̷i̶n̴g̸ ̵d̸a̴y̴,̸ ̸j̸u̶s̸t̷ ̴l̷i̷k̴e̸ ̵I̶'̶v̶e̵ ̴b̷e̷e̷n̴ ̶d̶o̴i̸n̸g̷.̶ ̶ ̶

T̸T̶:̴ ̴Y̵o̶u̷'̴r̷e̵ ̸t̸h̴e̵ ̵o̶n̵l̴y̴ ̸V̸o̶i̷d̷ ̴p̷l̷a̸y̶e̷r̶.̶ ̵Y̴o̶u̴ ̷c̶a̴n̴ ̵b̵r̶i̷n̵g̷ ̷m̴e̵ ̸b̸a̷c̷k̴.̵  ̴

T̴T̴:̷ ̷R̷o̸x̵y̷?̶ 

̵̹͗̎Ț̸̢T̵̘́:̵̮̯̂ ̴̤̹̃͋Ĭ̵̮̪̏ ̶̳̂͐n̵̫̘̐͒e̷̞̽v̷̜̒e̶̛̮̐r̴̮͐͜ ̵̫̭͋̕w̵̝̑͝a̷̩͆͂n̵̜͊͒t̴̬͈͆̌ě̷̥̽d̴͕̆͝ ̵͈̭̈́t̷̥̑͠o̵̤̖̓ ̴̨͓̎͗d̷͎̐i̶̬͐͜e̷̛͈͝.̶͙̰̈͝ ̷̡̖̄̕Ì̴͚͘ ̶̗̝̆ṋ̵͑̽ȇ̵̳̲͝v̴̖̟͒̃e̸̪͐͆r̸̆͜ ̴̺͙̈́͐w̵͓͆̍a̸͇̩͗n̸̞̾ͅt̵͖͗e̸̤͋͋d̵̯͎̑ ̵̫t̶̺̼͘ḫ̴͕̆i̶̬̥͗̎ș̸̈̽.̴̛͇͎̽  ̵̅͜

Ṱ̶̀͗T̴̡̛̮̾:̸͚̣͂ ̴̣̃̏ͅY̵̦̠̐o̸̹̔͑ͅů̶̻̫͑ ̷̲̃̏h̷̤͕̓ȁ̶̡̯͊v̵̼̄ẹ̶͝ ̵̫̘͂̕t̸͉̑ọ̵̈́̐ ̷̠̗̈͑ḣ̶͓̅ȅ̸̟͍͘l̸̙̒͂p̴̱͎͆ ̶̙͆̃m̷͓̔̉e̵͔̓.̸̘͛̽ͅ ̶̭̤̓̾I̴̙̒̈́ ̴̇ͅḍ̷͘͝ő̵͍̌n̷̪͑'̸̣͔̕t̸͕̂ ̷͍͊k̸̗̈́͝n̸̟͠o̴̢͛̈́ͅw̸̥̄̏ͅ ̸̲͑͘ͅh̶̞͂o̸̩̍w̸̩͑ ̷̌̔ͅm̵̛̻ͅu̶̮͊c̴̊͆͜h̴̦̾ ̵̜̃̿l̶̠̐ỏ̵̥n̷̖͛̋g̷̯̯͛e̸͓̓̚r̸̟̓ ̵̲̫͊I̶͉̞̐ ̷̤̈́̽c̵̛͕͇ȃ̸̘̉n̷̖͐͂ ̸͈͂̓h̶̩̄̾o̴͉̥̔l̵̨̑d̵͉̯̈́̇ ̴͂͜ǒ̸̦n̴͎͑.̷̢͔͋ ̴̝͑͠

\--Error: Message undelivered! User t̶̹̪̏̏̾̾̍̕ͅỉ̵̦̣̻͖͇́̐̌̃̽̏̉͒̀̈́́̚͜͝͝m̴̖̠̙͎̝̭̼̯̭͇͚͎̪̜̒̀̓̅̓â̷̝̝̱͇͔̩͙̈́͝é̷͉̗̣͑̌͗̈́̅͆͆̚͝ú̶̹͕̕s̷̡̢̡̯̪͇̹͈̰̆̈́̎͂̉̈́̚͜T̷̪̹͛̈́̄͛͒́̽̉͝e̴͚̩͉͖͉͙̠̹͆̈́͑̿̄̀̐̕͠͝s̷̯͑̆t̴͔̮̗̝̿̒̊̈͠ͅḯ̷̬̺̄̐̔̽̽̕f̵̢̰͓́̓̎̉͌̄̈̒̓̓͝į̷̛͍̙͖̰̳̳̞̪̰̜͒͑͒̿͌̔̿͐͗̆̌͝͝e̶͎̘̺̼͛͑͘d̸̛̯̥̭̗̾̓̐͛̍͛̓̔̉͜ ̴̫̊̑̑̈́̎̉̄͋̋̆̓̈́́͘͜[̴̧̛̮͓̫̙̙̙̬͚͕̬͖͖̾͌̋͛́͐̏͗͛̈́̕̕͠T̸̡͖̦͙̠̫͇̲͉̓̈͗̌͠T̶̙̆͗͘͠]̷̡̛̛̯̾̇͛͐̅̓̇̈́͒̂̕͝͝’ does not exist!—

_You know that she’ll answer. She has to._

**8:43 PM.**

You shift back into awareness when your phone chimes against your thigh. You blink a few times, disoriented, before you actually look at the screen.

Your head is swimming, but- you know you haven’t been anywhere, haven’t moved. You’ve lost time again, but you haven’t moved.

\--tentacleTherapist [TT] has begun pestering timaeusTestified [TT]—

TT: Well, Mr. Strider, it’s been quite some time since our last session. 

TT: By which I mean, I feel rather neglected, given that it’s your turn to host our usual tête-à-tête and attempt to catch me off my guard. 

TT: Off my rhythm, if you must, but I would rather you not hurl a silver money clip at my face.

TT: Goodness knows that the metal burns. 

TT: And Kanaya would not appreciate the disfigurement.

You stare at the messages, and try to remember the last time you saw Rose. It should bother you more that you can’t- and it must have been a while, if she’s initiating contact to suggest it. You should answer, tell her that you’ll see her. Tell her that you think you’re losing your fucking mind, to be frank, m’dear. Ha. As if. You ignore the feeling of something cordoning and herding your thoughts, pulling your strings so you spit out the answers it wants onto the screen. Your fingers don’t quite feel like your own, their reaction delayed as if they were numb with cold. They type out what you want them to, though. TT: First, let me offer my sincere and most obsequious apologies for neglecting our little chats. 

TT: I’ve been somewhat preoccupied lately. 

Yes, that’s it.

((Good boy))

TT: I’m sure you know how I get when I’ve got a project in the works.

TT: So I have been informed by my mother, yes. You, and I quote directly, ‘get mad obsessive over em, lmao’. 

TT: That is one way to put it, yes. But it is why I’ve been so scarce lately. The thrill of your metaphorical fingers digging into my psyche cannot compare to the shriek of metal and bliss of creation. 

TT: Or something like that, if I wanted to purple prose it. 

TT: But is it really so shocking that I’d rather engage in one of my favorite past-times than arm you with a scalpel and let you go to town on my brain? 

TT: Not at all, in fact. You Striders are so protective of your privacy. 

TT: Though I must admit, you’re less of an open book than Dave is.

TT: Certainly, I’m less likely to call you my hot daughter/mom. 

TT: Why, Dirk. Are you suggesting that I’m ugly? 

TT: I do resemble you quite a lot. 

TT: It’s a curse you’ll have to bear, Medusa. 

TT: A self burn. Impressive, I hear those are rare to witness. 

TT: You underestimate my skill at self-deprecation, and how willing I am to throw myself under the bus to land a cheap insult. 

TT: I suppose I do. My mistake, then. 

TT: How have things been since we’ve last spoken? Have you experienced one (1) more emotion since then? 

TT: I have experienced two (2) emotions since then. I know, shocking. 

TT: Unprecedented development. Could I press you to identify them? 

TT: I’m afraid my poor emotionally stunted brain can’t cope with that just yet. One day, maybe. 

TT: Of course. May I suggest the WikiHow? 

TT: I’ll look into it, don’t you worry. 

TT: Was that all you messaged me to ask about?

You know better than to expect Rose to just be ‘checking in’ on you, but- it isn’t entirely unreasonable, if you haven’t spoken to her in a while, but paranoia kicks in hard.

~~ (You can’t tell her.) ~~

((Do not tell her.))

TT: Of course. Are you suggesting that I have ulterior motives in speaking to my erstwhile father, when he has been conspicuously absent for some time? 

TT: I’d hardly call it a conspicuous absence. I don’t actually go out that much. I’m busy cultivating the image and habits of a particularly flighty cryptid. 

TT: The Consorts love it, weirdly enough.

TT: They always like it when they ‘catch’ me for a picture.

TT: And cryptidhunters.com forums are far more enjoyable to troll than you’d expect. 

TT: They are, aren’t they? It’s a shame how worked up people get at the thought of wanting to know precisely how to seduce said monsters. 

TT: As if you’d do anything else when you found the many-tentacled beast that heralded the End Times. 

TT: Gotta check off that fuck or die trope. 

TT: I’m a woman of literary loyalty, Strider. I must investigate every trope there is. 

TT: A Shakespearean sleuth, you are. 

TT: But of course. 

TT: About those sightings of yours. I am aware that it’s the Halloween season, as it were, but you ought to at least put more effort into your costumes.

TT: Please. I have the perfect one planned out for the day itself. 

TT: And we will be seeing you at the party? You have your pumpkin carving duties to preside over. 

TT: It would be quite the upset if you were to miss it. 

TT: I’ll be there.

The thought makes you want to break out in hives for two very different reasons. You’ve never been that big a fan of crowds, and you know full well that Jane will have them in full swing at the party. And with your- situation- you don’t know what could happen with so many people there. To any of the people there. You like to think that you won’t hurt them; as far as you know, you’ve never hurt anyone during your lost time. That’s the thing, though. As far as you know.

TT: Excellent.

TT: And as for the matter of your costume.

TT: I would avoid popped collars. They’re terribly gauche, and you have quite the history of fashion mistakes. 

~~(Mistakes what the fuck, it’s the goddamn peak of irony. Lemme tell her that.)~~

You freeze.

((Finally. Someone’s catching on.))

You make yourself type out a response, flippant as ever, because she can’t know. ~~Obviously she can. Let me talk to her~~.

TT: I’m offended, Lalonde. But high fashion often offends those of lesser sensibilities

TT: Are you suggesting that my wife is not the pinnacle of sartorial perfection?

TT: I’m suggesting that for all Kanaya’s tailoring knowledge, she doesn’t exactly have the best grasp on the most ironic of clothing choices.

TT: She’s caught up in aesthetic sensibilities, rather than pushing boundaries. 

TT: Subjecting poor bystanders to the hideous items you and Dave choose as your raiment, you mean.

TT: I wouldn’t put it quite so crudely.

TT: You wouldn’t, but I thought it best to ensure that you knew precisely how well-received your eyesore clothes are. 

TT: It’s the curse of my Class, I’m afraid. It’s spread to everything else I wear. The curse of the poofy asshole pants. 

TT: Let’s not forget those lovely tights beneath them. A garter belt too, I presume. 

TT: Tragically, no. The Game didn’t have quite a good enough grasp of lingerie for that. They just stay on. 

TT: Thigh highs, then. A real curse, with legs like yours.

TT: Yet, not the worst one you’ve faced.

TT: No, your constant judgement of my fashion choices beats it out. 

TT: I would have said the consistent fragmenting of your soul, even subconsciously.

You can feel your heart skip a beat. You want to press her for more information almost immediately- you’ve spoken with Rose at length about your powers, wanting to know more, but she has to be bringing it up for a reason. She doesn’t know. You tell yourself this, add it to the other useless mantras cluttering your head. It rings as hollow as the rest of them.

TT: That’s a bold thing to say. 

TT: I’ll admit that it’s happened in the past, but I do have enough of a grasp on my abilities to not casually shred my soul every time I make something. 

TT: There is that, at least. 

TT: Are you suggesting something, Rose?

TT: Not at all. I’m positing a hypothesis. 

TT: To what end? 

TT: To answer the question you asked me two days ago, of course.

You stare at the screen, wracking your brains for even the smallest hint of memory. There is nothing. _Nothing._

A glimpse of [                                                                                                        ].

A fragment of conversation you can only make out the edges of. [                                       

 

                                                                                             ].

Panic begins to well up again, bubbling like a geyser ready to blow, and you’re the poor schmuck who has to stem the flow with your bare hands.

TT: You should have just said that. 

Inadequate. Every part of you knows it.

TT: Perhaps. You don’t remember, do you? 

Don’t admit it. You swallow, your mouth dry, and deliberately put your phone down. Your breathing is quick and shallow, and you wonder how many of the others know. How many signs and clues you’ve been letting slip. You wonder just how much you don’t remember. Your phone chimes a few more times, but you don’t look at the messages. You can’t. Your head is swimming, and it feels like there’s several of you surging forward to meet the wave, beating against the inside of your skull. Vaguely, you register that this might be more literal than is comfortable.

TT: I take that as a no. 

TT: We will help you, Dirk. 

TT: You need to let us. 

TT: Dirk? 

You know exactly what part of you is hyperaware of what the messages say, and you laugh once, the sound bitter and hysterical. It echoes off the ceilings, magnified and mocking You drop your head to rest in your hands, screw your eyes shut, and try your damn best to think of- To just, think. Of a way out.

((You can’t.))

**9:48 PM.**

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has begun pestering timaeusTestified [TT]—

TG: hey man

TG: whats up

TG: whatre the sweet sweet haps

TG: what is going down in stridertown

TG: wait if the answer is you dont actually say it

TG: if you are the one going down i definitely do not need to know

TG: not that theres a problem with my bro slobbering up on a knob but if i know you

TG: you not only can but also will take weird and sadistic delight in telling me all about it in the worst internet porn language since my immortal

TG: hell youd do it my immortal style and then get all the irony points and that is a thing that cannot happen

TG: under no circumstances dude

You stare at the screen, at the innocuous words that say he’s still typing. You want to respond, so badly. You do. Dave is the last person you want to alienate, if only because your alternate self has already hurt him enough. But he’s also the last person you want to know about any of this. If he thinks there’s even the slightest chance of you going rogue, you know he’ll never talk to you again. Not that you can blame him, but. That isn’t an acceptable outcome.

~~ (Do it. Fucking coward, let me talk to the kid if you won’t.)  ~~

Your hands don’t move when you tell them to. Your fingers shift to hover just over the keyboard, but-

TG: dirk dude it says youre online i know youre reading this

TG: if youre gonna ignore me you could at least pretend to be ghosting damn

You can’t. You won’t. You’re not going to. Something in you is rising up, demanding you listen. Demanding you push your finger down. Your thumb shakes a little in the air, suspended as it is. Bile rises in the back of your throat, sour and burning. You’re in control. You’re in control- you have to be in control. This is your body.

(D ~~o it.)~~

You’re not going to. You cling to the ruthless self-control that you made yourself develop. Even though you always, always want to reach out, even though that desire for connection is a chink in your armor, the thought of what ~~you~~ are going to do with it is unfathomable. You don’t know what’s going on, but you’re not going to let it spill over to others. You can’t do that.

TG: …dirk?

**(Do it.)**

The urge gets stronger and stronger, buffeting you like a flimsy reed in a howling wind. You won’t bend or break, you can’t afford to. Instead, you think about how horrified you were to wake up with that sword in your hand earlier. You think about what would happen if Dave knew, if you did anything to Dave like that. ~~Like me.~~ You’re better than that. ~~He needed it, and you gave him the tools to survive, and you’re damn well going to get the thanks you need for it.~~ You owe him that much, to be good.

** (Do it-) **

_No-_

TG: bro??

**9:58 PM.**

\--t̶̹̪̏̏̾̾̍̕ͅỉ̵̦̣̻͖͇́̐̌̃̽̏̉͒̀̈́́̚͜͝͝m̴̖̠̙͎̝̭̼̯̭͇͚͎̪̜̒̀̓̅̓â̷̝̝̱͇͔̩͙̈́͝é̷͉̗̣͑̌͗̈́̅͆͆̚͝ú̶̹͕̕s̷̡̢̡̯̪͇̹͈̰̆̈́̎͂̉̈́̚͜T̷̪̹͛̈́̄͛͒́̽̉͝e̴͚̩͉͖͉͙̠̹͆̈́͑̿̄̀̐̕͠͝s̷̯͑̆t̴͔̮̗̝̿̒̊̈͠ͅḯ̷̬̺̄̐̔̽̽̕f̵̢̰͓́̓̎̉͌̄̈̒̓̓͝į̷̛͍̙͖̰̳̳̞̪̰̜͒͑͒̿͌̔̿͐͗̆̌͝͝e̶͎̘̺̼͛͑͘d̸̛̯̥̭̗̾̓̐͛̍͛̓̔̉͜ ̴̫̊̑̑̈́̎̉̄͋̋̆̓̈́́͘͜[̴̧̛̮͓̫̙̙̙̬͚͕̬͖͖̾͌̋͛́͐̏͗͛̈́̕̕͠T̸̡͖̦͙̠̫͇̲͉̓̈͗̌͠T̶̙̆͗͘͠]̷̡̛̛̯̾̇͛͐̅̓̇̈́͒̂̕͝͝ has begun pestering turntechGodhead [TG]—

̴T̵T̴:̷ ̶I̷'̸m̸ ̵s̷o̸r̵r̷y̴.̴ ̸ ̸

T̶T̷:̴ ̶W̴e̶ ̶b̸o̸t̸h̶ ̶a̷r̸e̶.̴  \--

Error: Messages undelivered! User t̶̹̪̏̏̾̾̍̕ͅỉ̵̦̣̻͖͇́̐̌̃̽̏̉͒̀̈́́̚͜͝͝m̴̖̠̙͎̝̭̼̯̭͇͚͎̪̜̒̀̓̅̓â̷̝̝̱͇͔̩͙̈́͝é̷͉̗̣͑̌͗̈́̅͆͆̚͝ú̶̹͕̕s̷̡̢̡̯̪͇̹͈̰̆̈́̎͂̉̈́̚͜T̷̪̹͛̈́̄͛͒́̽̉͝e̴͚̩͉͖͉͙̠̹͆̈́͑̿̄̀̐̕͠͝s̷̯͑̆t̴͔̮̗̝̿̒̊̈͠ͅḯ̷̬̺̄̐̔̽̽̕f̵̢̰͓́̓̎̉͌̄̈̒̓̓͝į̷̛͍̙͖̰̳̳̞̪̰̜͒͑͒̿͌̔̿͐͗̆̌͝͝e̶͎̘̺̼͛͑͘d̸̛̯̥̭̗̾̓̐͛̍͛̓̔̉͜ ̴̫̊̑̑̈́̎̉̄͋̋̆̓̈́́͘͜[̴̧̛̮͓̫̙̙̙̬͚͕̬͖͖̾͌̋͛́͐̏͗͛̈́̕̕͠T̸̡͖̦͙̠̫͇̲͉̓̈͗̌͠T̶̙̆͗͘͠]̷̡̛̛̯̾̇͛͐̅̓̇̈́͒̂̕͝͝’ does not exist!—

**10:32 PM.**

Your eyes burn, but you can’t manage to look away from the screen. You know the movie playing almost by heart; childish obsession turned to a knife you used to flay yourself with. You don’t remember actually putting it on.

The music booms and swells, the screen dark but for the white gleam of a ship flying to the moon. You’re so, so tired.

You know that you need to stay awake, though, some deep, primal part of you urging you on. You can’t help but feel like your time is running out, slipping through your fingers like sand. You want to curl your fist, grasp onto what you have tightly and never let it go. You want to stay.

You know that you can’t, but it doesn’t stop you from trying to cheat. Your thoughts are quiet, finally. Smoothed over by exhaustion from a body that’s being pushed past its limit. You need to sleep. You refuse to sleep.

You won’t fall asleep, you won’t let go.

**11:59 PM.**

You cannot resist it anymore. You, who could remain awake for days on end, consumed from the inside out with what more flowery descriptions would call the fire of productivity. You would call it getting carried away. You would call it obsession, and hunger, and _want_. You’ve always put too much of yourself into your work.

This isn’t entirely under your control, though, and that makes it all the different. You'd panic, if you had the energy, if this artificial lethargy wasn't weighing you down so much. Your eyelids are heavy as stones, falling despite your best efforts to keep them open.

They close.

You

 d

                         r

                                                     i

                                                                                          f

                                                                                                                                t                   

(into nothing.)

.

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

.

 

 

**12:01 AM.**

You wake, gasping for breath and with a scream choking itself in the back of your throat.


End file.
